His Apple Girl
by SpellCleaver
Summary: Jace's parents were killed by Valentine. Whilst he was captured he meets a cheerful redhead, who gives him her apple. He escapes. Years later he meets with an unknown traitor close to Valentine to gain information. Then he's told to kidnap Valentine's daughter, Clarissa. His Apple Girl. But she's more different than he ever imagined. VERY OOC. AU/AH. Clace/Sizzy/a little Malec
1. Prologue

**This is a new story I've had in my head for a while. A good deal of it is based on the song "Midnight" by Beth Crowley, although it wasn't inspired by that. I'm just writing this down so I won't forget about it. I probably will continue with this story but A Matter of Perception will definitely be my first priority.**

 **Also, most of this will be in Jace's PoV.**

 **So on with the prologue...**

* * *

 _Chapter song:_

 _Shine by Birdy_

A nine year old Jace curled up on the cold floor and did his best not to cry. His parents hadn't cried as they died, they had stayed strong until the end. He would too. He would carry the glory of the Herondale name if it killed him. He would fight back.

At least, that was the plan. He wasn't able to do much fighting in his current state.

After he had been forced to watch his parents tortured to death, the guards (he had heard them call each other Pangborn and Blackwell) had dragged him to what seemed like an enclosed courtyard. It was semi-circular, with the curved edge being taken up by marble walls and thick doors, and the flat edge dominated by a tall set of elaborate gates. He had been put in manacles to sit on the floor and quietly mourn his parent's deaths. He hadn't been given anything to eat in days, and he found himself unbelievably hungry.

Then he heard the terrifying sound of a door opening.

He jerked his head up and glanced around. One of the doors on his left was slowly being pushed open. He caught a flash of red and immediately started panicking. Was it guards sporting the crimson tunics they wore here? Something bleeding so profusely that they had turned scarlet? Or maybe even-

A red haired girl, eating an apple and surveying him through inquisitive eyes.

Jace blinked. She looked like Little Red Riding Hood, although admittedly the cloak she wore was green.

A loud crunch broke him out of his thoughts as she bit into it. She seemed slightly nervous, her right hand fiddling with a hole in her sleeve at her elbow as her left held the apple. Jace processed the food, and his attention became fixed on it.

She saw her gaze and her eyebrows furrowed. Shrugging, she walked over and handed the apple to him. He fell upon it ravenously, devouring it core and all. She looked impressed.

"I'm not supposed to be out here." She said abruptly, still looking at Jace as though she'd never seen the likes of him before. Her eyes were apple green. Yes, he was still thinking of apples. She cocked her head slightly. "Daddy says it's dangerous and that he doesn't want me hurt." She looked around very obviously, as though she couldn't see the dangers. "Jonathan disagrees, but he tells me just to keep Daddy happy. I like making Daddy happy, but I was curious." She had a fragile innocence about her, one that might not be so fragile if she were anywhere but here. "I'm Clary."

"I'm Jon-Jace." He said suddenly, not sure why he told her the nickname reserved for his friends like Alec, who he'd known for years. She beamed happily.

"Can we be friends, Jonjace?" Jace hesitated, but she seemed so happy, and he was still nine years old. He needed to correct her on his name anyway.

"Okay..."

She walked over to sit next to him. "How old are you?"

"Nine."

"I'm seven." She answered her own question. He smirked and she instantly got defensive. "I'll be eight next week!" She seemed indignant. Jace hastened to straighten his expression, but she wasn't paying attention. Her gaze had been caught by the smears of dried blood on the wall. She hesitantly ran her fingers over it.

"Jonathan says it's just red chalk." Her tone was odd, her eyes glazed over. "I don't know if I believe him."

She was snapped to attention by the sounds of running feet. A boy of about Jace's age, with a shock of white hair, a pale face, and wide green eyes emerged into the yard. Jace's first thought: if Clary was Little Red Riding Hood, this person was a White Wolf. He stopped and hissed at Clary: "Move! He's coming!" Jace assumed this was Jonathan.

Clary was out of there before he could process it.

But she came back. Everyday, as far as he could tell, she would bring an apple and just talk to him for sometimes hours on end. He'd told her early on he didn't want to talk about his parents, so she did most of the talking. She told him how her two older brothers, Jonathan and Sebastian, resembled their father, although Jon had green eyes instead of the others' black ones, whilst she looked like their mother. She told him how she was infinitely closer with her mother than her father because he was always too busy for him to truly bond with her. She told him how he also made Jon and Seb busy, but that Jon always tried to catch up and play with her in his spare time, whilst she hadn't had a proper conversation with Seb in years. She told him about her art, her tutor, how she couldn't go anywhere without being constantly watched. She told him everything.

The nickname Jonjace stuck.

One time, Jon came down without his sister. His expression had always seemed pained to Jace, who asked why he was always so sad. Jon answered that he had many burdens, and much darkness. When Jace had asked why he bore them, Jon had answered perfectly seriously.

"Because it keeps Clary light enough for the both of us."

Jace became so attached to the little carrot that when he discovered that the guards hadn't locked his manacles properly, or that he was small enough to fit through the bars in the gate, he spared a thought to how she would react in the morning, coming down to talk to her lost friend. Then he was gone.

It was years before he saw Clary again.


	2. Dandelion in the Dark

_Praise bounteous / providence if you will / that grants even an ogre / a tiny glow-worm / tenderness encapsulated / in icy caverns of a cruel / heart or else despair / for in the very germ / of that kindred love is / lodged the perpetuity / of evil. - Vultures by Chinua Achebe_

 **Wow. I had not expected such a response to this story. My other story took two weeks to reach the amount of followers this reached in two days. It's a little daunting. But thank you to everyone who reviewed, followed, and favoured.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own any characters.**

 **Here is chapter two...**

* * *

 _Eight years later_

 _Chapter song:_

 _The Start of Something New by the High School Musical Cast_

The knife embedded itself in the varnished wood of the table.

"Are you _joking_?!" Jace exclaimed with excessive volume. He saw the smallest of winces cross Alec's face and his mind briefly digressed enough to wonder what he was wincing at: the knife or the tone. Alec was a quiet person who disliked loud noises. He also hated it whenever Jace or Isabelle scarred the furniture. Usually Jace - being the OCD perfectionist he was - would agree with him. They would often subject Isabelle to long lectures on the matter. Later on, Jace knew that the ugly gash in the table would annoy him to no end, but he didn't particularly care right now. He stared at Alec, mouth open in horror like a fish out of water.

Alec sighed, his patience wearing thin. "Jace, you don't have a choice-"

"I am _not_ , standing in that accursed manor just to eavesdrop on idle chit chat for _another month_!" Jace fumed. Whenever Alec fumed, he did it silently, but Jace had a tendency to do no such thing.

"Jace!" Alec snapped, his breath coming out in an exasperated huff. "Stop throwing a tantrum. The manor may seem deserted, even... haunted," he spat the word out; Alec was a rationalist, "but the Clave believes that the Circle makes it its base of operations, rather than the residents just being paranoid and employing armed guards for no reason. If it really is the place, then the leader is sure to be there. We might finally understand who is at the centre of this spiders web!"

Jace fingered the handle of the stationary knife, feeling his fingertips brush the engraved crest. "My parents knew."

"And that's why he - _or she_ \- killed them." Alec's hand was on Jace's wrist, restraining him from seizing the knife and doing even more damage. His blue eyes were wide and earnest. "Don't you want to avenge them?"

Jace did. More than anything.

The Circle of Raziel was one of the most secretive organisation in existence. The Clave was an almost-as-secretive organisation created in secret to battle it. As far as they knew, not even the Circle was aware of their existence.

The Circle was a group of lethal assassins. They had a signature and _very_ individual method of killing, so their slaughter's were easy to track. What was less easy, was trying to spot a pattern. Each was done at a seemingly random time, in a secluded area. The victims varied in age, race, stature, height, gender, and sexuality. There were no family links between them. It was a mystery; one the Clave was struggling to solve.

"What would you want to find out about the leader? What would you be _able_ to find out about them? Their favourite type of food?" Jace was irritated that he couldn't come up with an argument against this assignment and his tone showed it.

Alec ignored the sarcasm. "Maybe. Or maybe if they have any family members we can threaten, or-"

Jace snorted. "Threaten? That seems a bit inhumane, doesn't it?" Alec looked pained for a moment.

"I suppose... And it's not as if they would have kids. Not only is that impractical in their line of work, but they would be driven mad by the solitude? Who would they have to talk to, imaginary friends?" He scoffed.

"I had an imaginary friend." Jace filled in quietly. Alec looked caught off guard.

"What?"

"You heard me." Jace turned to the window. "I had an imaginary friend whilst I was imprisoned." He didn't see the pity in Alec's eyes, or his shudder, but he didn't need to. He knew it was there. "She was a little younger than us, with bright red hair, really frizzy so it covered a lot of her face, pale skin covered in freckles, and big green eyes. She was short - very - but it made her look delicate, like a little fairy, and she had one of those faces that you just _knew_ would make her a great beauty when she was older. She was outgoing, and friendly, and used to always have an apple on her, which she would give me. She had an older brother too, but I didn't see him as often."

Alec had been silent for a while. When Jace turned back to look him in the eye, he saw his face was open, full of soft astonishment. "That's not what I would expect a person you - even if this was you eight years ago - would create in your mind to be like." Jace shrugged. "What was her name?"

"Clary." His voice was low and heartbroken.

"And her brother?"

"Jonathan. She had another as well, but I never spoke to him. Sebastian." Alec's mouth was positioned in an awkward half-smile.

"Wow."

"She used to tell me stories about her life. She rarely saw her father, her mother always claiming he was busy with 'business'. Her brothers would often have to join him, but whilst Jonathan - she called him Jon - would put effort into still interacting with her when she was free, she would sometimes go months without ever speaking to Sebastian."

Alec had raised an eyebrow. "Minus the brothers, Clary's life sounds a lot like how you described yours to once be." He was quiet for a moment before realising that Jace wasn't going to respond. His voice came out gruff. "You put a lot of detail into this story."

"It gave me faith. Kept me alive." He shook himself out of his reminiscence. "Fine; I'll do the guard duty."

Alec only nodded, something seemingly on his mind. Without warning he blurted it out: "Do you think the manor is the place you were imprisoned?"

It was Jace's turn to raise an eyebrow. "No, Alec. I think I recall only having to walk for a few hours after I escaped before I reached your doorstep. And you, Isabelle, Maryse and Robert lived on the other side of the country then compared to the manor now. I'm flattered by you thinking I can walk that far, but alas, I am only human."

A grunt was the only response, other than Alec's reddened cheeks.

Really, it was practically a miracle that of all places, he had turned up on the _Lightwoods_ doorstep. They had been honorary members of the Clave, just like his parents, and had recognised his anxious aureate eyes immediately. He had told them what had transpired, and they had adopted him not long after. He had been given the chance to grow up around the Clave.

He had been given the chance for vengeance.

It was an awful feeling, what might have happened to him. He still remembered the windy night clear as day.

 _The streetlights glowed above him, washing out the stars in a blur of neon yellow. They reflected off the few remaining puddles to illuminate the dank road in front of him._

 _He stood in the outskirts of an unfamiliar town. Warehouses rose on either side of him as he eyed the fork in the path ahead of him. He was out of his depth. He had no idea where to go._

 _He was lost._

 _Then he saw the flurry of snowy seeds. Dandelion seeds. His mother had been a great believer in fate, and signs. From a young age, she had recited the same thing about dandelions to Jace._

 _"Dandelions are tough, able to grow through anything, even cracking concrete. They ride the wind and will grow no matter where it takes them. They are survivors. Follow the dandelions, and you'll be alright."_

 _The words echoed through his mind as he stared at the seeds, which hovered in the air like silver butterflies. A recklessness seized him._

 _He followed the dandelion seeds._

 _And he was alright._

"Jace! Jace?"

He blinked, to see Alec waving a hand in front of his face. He lowered it, eyeing him with intense cobalt eyes.

"Are you okay? You sort of zoned out a bit there." Jace nodded.

"Well... I'll inform the Clave you threw a hissy fit, then was forced to concede to their plan." He laughed at the ticked off look in Jace's narrowed eyes, then strode out of the room.

Jace leaned forward and yanked the knife out of the table, scrunching his nose up at the sight of the mark it had left. He let out a short bark of laughter as he flipped it in his hand.

If the assignment didn't kill him, Maryse certainly would.

* * *

 **Aaaand _there's_ the backstory. Well, some of it. These chapters won't be the longest, and the length's may change dramatically. Just a heads up.**

 **I'll update soon, say, once I receive three reviews because otherwise I'll probably think I've lost all my followers with this chapter.**

 **:)**


	3. The Ice Prince & A Snowy Owl

**Thank you to everyone who Reviewed, Followed, and favoured. You people are amazing!**

 **For the people who said they wanted more Clace, it is coming, I'm just not sure how soon. But Clary will turn up very soon.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own the Mortal Instruments. Cassandra Clare does.**

 **S** **o without further ado...**

* * *

 _Chapter song:_

 _Enemies by Shinedown_

Jace was irate as he made the horribly familiar journey from his home to the manor he was meant to be infiltrating. It stood atop a hill above the village of Alicante (coincidentally where the Clave was based). He had gripped the steering wheel of his car so tightly his knuckles began to ache. He was forcing himself to take deep breaths as he parked about a mile away on the side of some dirt track, then jogged up the hill to where the manor stood.

Nine years. It had been nine years since their death and still Jace heard their last screams ring in his ears in times like these.

He steadied his heart rate, then looked up at the manor.

The first impression Jace had ever got of it: it was _massive_. Looking like something built in the eighteenth century, the individual bricks were indistinguishable from the smooth expanse of rock that made up the walls. Minerals and fossils frozen in the stone glittered iridescent colours in the faint dawn light. Iron balconies, doorways and windowsills were driven into the walls like hammered nails. A pale grey dirt path wound through what was practically a field, a long, long, _long_ expanse of lawn leading up to the paved slabs that preceded the steps up to the door. In the late October frost the grass blades stood to attention like shards of emerald, or soldiers clad in bottle green uniforms. The lawn was devoid of flowers, even daisies and dandelions.

Now, standing on the steps, he looked up at the manor itself. It seemed to intermingle with the ominous dark clouds that swirled in the sky, casting a monochrome light over the scene. Windows were punched through the walls at identical intervals. He counted eight across. On what seemed to be the third floor, the fifth window from the left wasn't there, like the room had to be hidden from the outside world. He made a mental note to pry into what that room contained. At the very top of the stone expanse, where the wall met the red tiles of the roof, a twisted hunk of rock Jace assumed was meant to be a gutter was thrust out from the main body.

Jace stepped one last step to the door, and knocked smartly. He heard the sound resonate loudly throughout the hallways on the other side.

With almost eerie speed, the door swung inward. On the other side of it stood a teenager about the same age as Jace himself - eighteen. So far Jace had only dealt with Valentine, but this boy was clearly his son. He had the same colourless hair, strong nose, and dark eyes. Though Valentine was more broad-shouldered, this boy was slender and lithe like a cat. He leaned against the cold iron doorway with narrowed eyes and smiled a cold smile. Jace mentally dubbed him The Ice Prince.

"One would think," His Royal Highness said mockingly, "that a person of such youth and looks as yourself, would surely have found a better occupation than standing around for hours on end in a house miles from anywhere with precious little company guarding against a danger that will likely never come." He cocked his head; silver hair fell across his eyes. His lip curled in a condescending sneer at his looked Jace up and down. "Don't you agree?" It took everything Jace had not to respond with a snarky comment. But he did it. For Alec. For Isabelle. for Maryse and Robert. For his parents.

He would get revenge, and that involved being content to play the long game.

At Jace's lack of answer, he raised an eyebrow and held out his left hand for Jace to shake. Jace shook off the faint surprise - he was left handed, like himself - and took it. "Sebastian Morgenstern. You'll be Jonathan Wayland. My father had bestowed upon me the responsibility of hiring and managing the guards, so I will be corresponding with you, as opposed to Valentine."

He was far more eloquent than most people Jace had met.

"Come in. I will show you where to stand, and you will stand there for hours and get paid for it." His tone indicated how ridiculous he thought this was. "Hurry up."

When Jace stepped over the threshold, he was assaulted by the wonder that still hadn't faded after weeks of seeing it. The stone walls were as polished as the outside, curving in elegant arches overhead, where they swung with chandelier's and were set with copper coins. A silver star was carved on the keystone of each arch. The marble floor alternated between black and white pentagons, the spaces where they didn't tessellate a faint green colour, studded with jasper, jade and onyx. A thick, seemingly ancient tapestry lined the right hand wall, dusty with age. The once jewel-bright colours were now faded and dull, but Jace could make out what looked like a battle. On the left hand side was an array of decorative spears and swords. A bookcase further down was built of sturdy oak and filled with uncountable volumes. In the far distance, a suit of armour glinted.

Jace stopped to look at the tapestry. The outlines of the characters were almost gone, but it still seemed oddly familiar. With Valentine, who gave off a stern demeanour that would have the bravest cowering, he wouldn't dare ask, but his son seemed much more lax. Bored, even. "What does this this tapestry show?"

Sebastian shrugged. "Don't know, don't care. Ask Clarissa if you're interested. She probably has every one of the suits of armour named, with their owners and date of production memorised. She's odd like that." When he spoke his voice sounded odd. Almost... _fond_. Who was this Clarissa? "Come on."

He led Jace down a corridor that he hadn't seen yet. The doors were farther and fewer, their handles more worn. Eventually - after a while of walking - Sebastian stopped.

This place was big. How had Sebastian gotten to the door so fast?

"Here we are." he gestured at a seemingly random spot. "Stand there. Guard. Pace if you get bored. Whatever." Then he was off, without a backward glance.

Jace couldn't suppress his smirk. Sebastian really didn't pay attention to his job. He hadn't even handed him some sort of weapon. He leaned against the wall. This would be a breeze.

When he tilted his head back, it rubbed against an engraving. He turned to look at it. His jaw dropped.

The symbol was a circle, with Latin words inscribed in the centre. Jace knew these words inside out.

 _In Hoc Signo Vinces._

By this sign, we will conquer.

* * *

The buzz of finally confirming the Circle's hideout was swiftly silenced when he realised it meant extra guard duty as he needed to scope this place out. That effectively killed it.

When footsteps echoed down the hallway, loud and clear like sarcastic claps, he hastily straightened up, trying to do anything that seemed ... _guardish_. His tense posture relaxed slightly when the figure who was approaching.

She was a girl whose delicately boned face suggested she was around sixteen, whilst her height was more reminiscent of fourteen. She wore a loose long dark green top over black leggings and despite the loud footsteps hailing her approach, her feet were bare. She had white-blonde hair, pulled into two neat plaits draped over her shoulders, making her seem even younger. She hadn't lost the big eyes of a little girl, though he couldn't tell the colour in the dim lighting. He could barely distinguish a faint smattering of freckles over her nose and cheekbones. In the her right hand she carried an apple: she tossed it up and caught it as she walked, humming an unfamiliar tune.

She stopped short when he said suddenly "Can I help you?"

He instantly felt foolish. For all he knew, she could just be passing through. Nothing indicated she was looking for a specific guard. But it could have been worse; the way he seemed to have startled her suggested she hadn't noticed him and he wouldn't have wanted her to freak out if she had noticed at a different time. Her already large eyes widened fractionally, even after she'd jumped, which coupled with her alabaster skin and icy hair to make her resemble a snowy owl.

She blinked. "Oh... Sorry, I was looking for Alaric. He's usually the guard here."

Jace was curious now. "Why were you looking for him?"

She flushed slightly, effectively ruining the whole "ageless ice princess" effect. "I-I usually bring him an apple around this time. He's one of the few people around here who talks to me."

Jace felt an odd stirring that he honestly couldn't recall ever feeling: pity. "Well, I could use an apple." He smirked slightly. She raised her eyebrows.

"Sure." She tossed him the apple. In the lacklustre light it looked black, but he imagined it would usually be a dark red.

"Thanks."

"I'll come back with another tomorrow."

"Why apples?"

She shrugged. "I like apples. Alaric does too."

"Fair enough." He took a bite, and closed his eyes. He didn't think apples had that much flavour. The last one that had come anything close to it had been-

His eyes flew open. The girl seemed to have been studying him but she hurriedly schooled her features again. He pointed at her, mock serious. "You, miss, are a lifesaver." His mouth was still full of bits of apple. She laughed a clear, sweet laugh - then clapped her hand over her mouth like she was surprised. Before he could say anything else, she had rushed down the corridor and disappeared from sight.

* * *

Jace just wanted the shift to _end_.

What was the point of this? He wasn't gaining any information. The guards weren't given coveted insights into the Circle's secrets. How was he supposed to find out-

"What are you doing around here, Clarissa?"

Oh, right. That was it. By eavesdropping on conversations.

He leaned forwards, and looked left and right down the corridor. No one was coming. Then again, these passages were so perfect for echoes that they were probably on the other side of the building.

The echoes muddled the voices, but the words were crystal clear.

"Tell me what is happening, Sebastian. Do you not trust me? I know something's wrong. For years, Father's business - whatever it is - has been running without a hitch. What's wrong _now_?" He heard a sharp intake of breath.

"Nothing is going wrong. Everything is fine. Father has merely unloaded more responsibilities onto me, and I am proving unworthy of them. That is all."

"I can help you." The second, lighter voice - Clarissa - was insistent.

"No!" Sebastian burst out, then restrained himself. Jace entertained himself with a mental image of Sebastian's cheeks swelling up and him turning red. "I mean, I'll be fine. Go back to your room, and do your reading or something. Or out in the garden."

"It's raining."

"Oh. Then read."

"I don't want to."

"Oh."

Jace got the sense that Sebastian wasn't going to force her to do anything. So he hadn't imagined the fondness in his voice earlier.

"Sebastian, I can't. I'm going stir crazy in there." Sebastian let out a weak chuckle, but Clarissa's voice was dead serious and Jace didn't think she was joking.

"Please? For me?" There was a sudden silence.

"Say my name."

"Clarissa."

"You know what I mean." He heard a sigh, then Sebastian mumbled something unintelligible from where he stood. But evidently Clarissa heard it, because she conceded.

"Fine. But if I get a fatal headache from _A Tale of Two Cities_ it's your fault."

Sebastian laughed, properly this time, and then his footsteps began to sound closer to Jace. When Sebastian appeared at the end of the corridor he immediately snapped. "You're dismissed. Go back to your life."

Jace obeyed, indescribably grateful to get the hell out of there.

* * *

The worst part of Jace's job wasn't actually the dangerous assignments.

It was the paperwork that came after them.

He sat staring at his computer (or rather, the Clave's computer; there was no way he would be able to afford a computer like that, with the defence and security and encryptions and other stuff that Jace hadn't been paying attention to in the lecture). His train of thought had crashed.

He started from the beginning. What had he learned.

 _1\. The Circle uses the Manor as its base._ **_Relative Information_.**

 _2\. The most likely candidate for the leader, is Valentine Morgenstern. **Relative Information.**_

 _3\. Valentine Morgenstern has a son, Sebastian Morgenstern, who he is training to take over the Circle. **Relative Information.**_

 _4\. The guard that was there before me was/is called Alaric. As of whether he is alive is uncertain._

He just classified it as **_May Need Further Enquiry_** seeing as they didn't have the class **_Not really relevant or useful in any way so far but of interest to me for reasons I don't understand._**

 _5\. Clarissa-_

What? What was she? He didn't actually know that must about her. All he had heard from her was that she was slightly OCD and was doted on by Sebastian, though he never told her anything. He'd never actually spoken to her. But a nagging feeling told him she was important. The way Sebastian had treated her, like a little sister-

 _Wait._

She had referred to Valentine Morgenstern (presumably) as _F_ _ather_.

So had Sebastian.

 _5\. Clarissa Morgenstern is the daughter of Valentine Morgenstern and the (apparently younger) sister of Sebastian. She knows nothing of her Father's business. **Relative Information.**_

He sort of wished there was a **_Useful but Only if we want to be Barbaric_** category.

He drummed his index and middle fingers against the computer.

What about that girl who had given him the apple looking for Alaric? She also felt important - important and familiar. Jace presumed he had seen her briefly during his imprisonment. She was probably a maid. No snooty Morgenstern would be that familiar with an employee.

In the end, he didn't mention his apple encounter at all.

Because at that moment, an email pinged.

He checked who was emailing him. This email address was confidential, and only members of the Clave could contact him. He would recognise whoever's name it was. He had a perfect memory.

But the email was anonymous.

It was three sentences long. The first read:

 _Whilst you read this, bear in mind: the Circle knows of no connection between Jonathan Wayland and Jace Herondale._

The first sentence alone made his mouth go dry. But then he read the second and third and his heart started tap dancing in his throat.

 _A member of the Circle will attempt to assassinate your adoptive brother at seven pm tomorrow evening. When you intervene, they will try to kill you too._

* * *

 **Cliff-hanger!**

 **So this chapter was longer than usual. This was longer than most of my chapters ever written. I hope you enjoyed it!**

 **Please review. They are very motivational. :)**


	4. The Empty Chamber

**Thank you to everyone who Reviewed, Followed and Favoured. There were so many it's overwhelming.**

 **I think only a few people caught on to what's happening, they know who they are; I messaged them, but the rest of you will find out soon enough.**

 **Disclaimer: I only own the plot and any OC's. The rest is Cassandra Clare's.**

* * *

 _Chapter song:_

 _Titanium by Marlisa_

That message did nothing to alleviate Jace's instinctual paranoia.

When he had initially received it, he had immediately thought it was a trick. One pulled by one of the more disagreeable Clave members, such as Alec and Isabelle's cousin Gabriel. Or one of the more annoying members such as Jace's cousin Will. After all, only reliable, active members had this email.

But a reliable, active member would have an account on the same channel and if they had sent it, then the computer would automatically pop up with their name.

And the email was anonymous. And if anyone had access to that kind of information, they would have notified the Clave's main body.

His train of thought immediately jumped rails and began to focus on the possibility of a traitor being amongst the Circle. Was it one? It was highly likely, especially if they had joined recently. They had gone through years of digging for information, then all of a sudden, one six hour shift and Jace had hit a small gold mine.

It seemed to good to be true.

But if the traitor knew how to contact them, how to link the Wayland's and the Herondale's, who adopted him after his escape, then who was saying the Circle didn't as well?

Half of his mind had told him not to return to guard/spy duty the next day. It was a natural feeling to not want to even _pretend_ to protect people who would kill him and his family in a heartbeat. But the reasonable half - the half he spent most of his time ignoring - had screamed at him that it would seem suspicious if he quit after only one day. Not that he thought Sebastian would notice. But-

 _The Circle knows of no connection between Jonathan Wayland and Jace Herondale._

It was an advantage. No point in messing it up.

So, here he was. Staring at a blank wall with no hopes about getting out of that torment anytime soon whilst his thoughts were _anything_ but restless.

Should he tell Alec and Isabelle about the email? What if it was a bluff? What if - even more distressingly - it was _true_? Then not only would he have to fight off an assassin, but then he would have to explain to the Clave everything that had happened between the guard duty and the email and he would be subjected to a long and boring inquisition, which he didn't think he could handle.

It probably said something about the arrogance and laziness of his character that he was more worried about having to attend extra meetings than fight off a highly trained killer.

He was pulled back to the present by the forceful footsteps everyone in the manor seemed to make. Looking up, Sebastian was making his way towards him with an odd, tired expression on his face. He seemed to realise it, because a moment later it was gone and Sebastian snapped "Hurry. You have a different position today." But his voice was monotone.

Jace dutifully followed Sebastian. He was dutiful until he reached the fifth staircase, by which point he was panting slightly. Sebastian seemed to find it amusing and quirked a pale eyebrow. He was as cool and unruffled as an ice sculpture. _Of course,_ Jace thought bitterly, _h_ _e probably does this every day._ His scrutinising gaze hadn't left Jace's slightly shaking frame and Jace snapped internally.

"Like what you see?" Jace inquired, voice heavy with innuendos, raising his own eyebrow. Sebastian's expression seemed to freeze for a moment, utterly motionless, until his lip curled in faint disgust at Jace's unprofessional attitude. However, instead of replying in kind, he merely continued ascending the stairs.

Jace swore under his breath. He didn't want to draw attention to himself. God knew he got enough attention as it was, without adding snarky comments and reputations to the mix.

He couldn't slip up again.

They continued up the stairs until they reached the top of a sixth flight. By this point Jace was ready to tear off Sebastian's smug, self-satisfied smirk and throw it out the window. _And there were still floors above them._ Without missing a beat as the stairs transitioned into a floor, he marched up to another seemingly random spot.

"Here." Jace resentfully occupied the space. Sebastian studied him thoughtfully for a moment, then barked out instructions at a rapid-fire pace. "Stand straight. Level your shoulders. Spread your feet. Stop smirking." Jace did so even more resentfully, especially at the last one. Sebastian nodded once. "Excellent."

He then reached behind him - was he wearing a bag? Pockets? Jace couldn't tell - and pulled out a gun and a holster. He wordlessly handed them to Jace, who took them uncertainly, before attaching the holster to his hip and cradling the gun cautiously with two hands.

Sebastian stepped back admiring Jace standing there the way a painter might admire his masterpiece. Then he took off without another word.

He seemed to like doing that.

He inspected the gun in his hands. He couldn't help but feel like he held something deadly powerful. Explosive.

Dangerous.

Which effectively he was.

He took a deep breath, letting the air flow out in a steady whoosh. He had handled a gun before - they all had to learn to be comfortable and able with them during training to join the Clave - but never on an _actual mission_. Never when everything could blow up around him just as effectively as the gunpowder inside the weapon he held.

It added extra weight to it.

Out of habit, he checked the chamber to monitor how many shots he had. What he saw shocked him. The chamber was empty.

Why would Sebastian give him a gun with no bullets?

* * *

A little while later, a group of three men walked past Jace on the way to one of the rooms. One was slender, as though all his limbs had been elongated to an unnatural length, and his face was sharp and triangular. He had a thin grey beard and moustache, and dark, deep set eyes. The second one was fairly thin - almost weedy - with greying brown hair and large terrified grey eyes. He trailed behind the other two slightly.

The third was Valentine Morgenstern, and needed no introduction.

The moment Jace saw him, his posture straightened and his eyes flicked downwards. He had always thought it a miracle that Valentine hadn't recognised him as the son of the couple he killed all those years ago, and he wasn't going to throw that away. When Valentine neared him, Jace tensed almost unnoticeably as his heart rate increased a thousand fold, pounding through his veins the same instinct. _Enemy. Enemy. Enemy._

As the three men passed, only the weedy one paid Jace any attention. Although Jace made no threatening moves, his presence seemed to multiply the man's anxiety significantly, and the poor person started trembling.

Jace watched their receding backs wondering what on earth he had gotten himself into.

* * *

Far too much time later, Sebastian returned and dismissed him. Apparently this time he couldn't be bothered with babysitting Jace and showing him out because he just kept walking on towards whatever else demanded his attention.

On the outside, Jace kept his emotionless countenance. But inside, he sported an evil grin.

It was the perfect chance to do some snooping.

Most of the doors he tried were locked. Jace had been taught to pick locks from an early age, but even he was unable to get through those doors. He couldn't deny the stab of disappointment, intermingled with curiosity. Whatever was behind that door was important enough to keep hidden away, even going to extensive measures to do so. What could it be?

Eventually he began to wonder if that was just how Valentine liked his doors, seeing as _every door on this floor_ was locked that way.

Resigned, he walked down to next floor and continued there. No such luck. Same result.

But on the fourth floor, one door swung open.

In fact, it was already partially open. A doorstop kept the door from closing fully, so Jace peeked inside. What he saw was completely unexpected.

An inattentive person would think they had stumbled into an empty bedchamber. There was a paint-splattered dresser, a carved wardrobe, and a bedside table in the room. But an attentive person would notice the sleeping person, the beeping, blinking machine next to the bed, or the wires and tubes going into the sleeper's arm.

The person was in a coma.

He approached the bed cautiously. The sleeper was a woman with bright red hair, with a pale-skinned face that looked to be around forty.

He tore his eyes away from her peaceful, yet heartbreakingly sad face, and his eyes landed on a photograph on the dresser. It was of the woman, Valentine and three children. Jace let an almost silent chuckle escape him when he recognised a two-year-old Sebastian, already looking like a miniature replica of his father. But his attention was caught and held by the other two children. One would be able to pass for Sebastian's green-eyed clone, so alike did they look. The other was just a baby being held by Valentine, but he could make out a wisp of ginger hair. He presumed that must be Clarissa.

He set the picture down, suddenly feeling like he had intruded on something private. Personal. _The mother of_ _Sebastian, Clarissa, and whoever this boy is is in a coma._

This suddenly felt very rude. Even the Clave trying to infiltrate the manor seemed wrong. Who was he to judge when he didn't know what this family had been through?

He hastily backed out of the room and into the corridor. He passed by a large window, complete with a seat, and took a moment to admire the view, pushing the Morgenstern family to the back of his mind.

It was _huge_. A shallow dip, with an elaborate but worn down maze that was probably taller than Jace nestled in the grass, extended from the base of the house for about a hundred metres before rising and falling hills rolled for a good long way, with flower beds expertly arranged and colour coded to form a shape that from this height was distinguishable as an eight-pointed compass. Oak trees ringed the edges of the garden, with silver birch trees meticulously planted in orderly rows so they resembled the bars of a cage. In the corner, just at the top of a hill, was a massive oak tree with spreading boughs that looked excellent for climbing, a treehouse balanced amongst them. Just beyond the hill, Jace could see a normal picket fence that marked the end of the garden, and the land that came after that was a mess of brambles and nettles. He could barely see a faint path that had been worn through the nettles over the years.

"Lost?" An amused voice questioned. "Your lack of brains is starting to tell me why you chose to pursue a career as a guard." Jace felt an unpleasant prickling between his shoulder blades as his instincts - a little late - alerted him to Sebastian's presence.

"Are you going to help me find my way out?" He asked coolly.

Sebastian seemed to consider it. "No." He said smugly, then walked off, whistling an off-key tune.

 _The fool._

After awhile of wandering - his conscience kept him from entering anymore rooms - he finally found himself on the ground floor again, standing in the passage he had been in the previous day.

He walked down it, deep in thought, but not too deep that he didn't notice the dark red apple sitting on a plate where he had been standing when he last saw the white-haired girl.

* * *

 **And the plot thickens...**

 **What does everyone think Sebastian's up to, with the empty gun and the changing guard posts? Where do you think Jonathan is? And _now_ who do you think sent the message? I would love to hear your thoughts.**

 **Sorry if you were expecting the assassin to turn up this chapter; I didn't expect it to go on for so long. But Clary and Jace's big confrontation will be in the next few chapters.**

 **Review? :)**


	5. Ghost of a Girl & Body of a Boy

**I'm back! Thank you thank you thank you to everyone who reviewed; it made my day. More and more people are beginning to catch onto what's happening. If you don't know for sure in this chapter, you'll know in the next chapter, probably. Jace meets Clary very soon at least.**

 **Firstly, I've slightly changed the warning message in Chapter 3 so you might want to go back and look at it before reading this chapter.**

 **Also, lots of people think that the message was either sent by Jonathan or Sebastian. We'll have to wait and see.**

 **Since I don't have an update schedule, I figured I'd say this: I will try to update every two to three days, unless I'm suddenly very busy. One thing for definite is that I WILL NEVER UPDATE ON A THURSDAY. I won't have the time.**

 **Finally, I've decided to change the rating to a T, because I'm not absolutely certain some of the topics (not sexual ones) are suitable for nine year olds.**

 **Disclaimer: I only own the plot, mistakes, and any OC's.**

* * *

 _Chapter songs:_

 _This is the Hunt by Ruelle_

When Jace stepped inside the Lightwoods' house - his house - he instantly knew something was wrong. Usually, at this time Maryse would have just began to cook dinner. Max - Alec and Isabelle's nine year old brother - would have jumped up from doing his homework the moment he heard the door and come bolting to show Jace his latest Manga volume. Alec generally wasn't in; he was generally off sorting through assassination files for the Clave or out with his boyfriend, and Isabelle's training to join the Clave didn't end until half past seven. But even with only two Lightwoods in the residence, it was quite noisy.

But he was met with only silence.

He looked down the short corridor to where the kitchen was. He could smell the aroma of something cooking on the stove, but there was no one manning it. He walked into the room and spied the note sitting on the table. It read in straight, neat handwriting:

 _Jace_

 _If you come home and can't find me, I've gone down to the store to pick up some things. I've left Max on his own, so could you watch him until I get back._

 _Maryse_

Jace read it through twice, nodding, then headed up the stairs to greet Max. Whether Maryse was present or not, it seemed odd that he hadn't seen Max yet. The kid was usually so bouncy it was impossible to get him to sit still.

As he came to the landing, he checked his digital watch to see how long it had been since he stepped through the door. This was really uncharacteristic of Max. Then he saw the time and froze.

 _7:08_ the blinking lights read.

Jace's pulse began hammering. He had told Robert about the email, after much deliberation, and his adoptive father had waved it off as a low trick. He had said to warn Alec that someone may be coming after him, but that in the end Alec could take care of himself. Jace had told Alec that very morning, at the same time he informed Maryse. The only person kept in the dark had been Isabelle, because she had a tendency to worry.

But the email hadn't been referring to Alec.

Jace Herondale, the one with a heart of stone, who never cried, felt tears spill down his cheeks.

Little Max Lightwood lay on the floor of his bedroom. The window was hanging open and swinging but Jace couldn't care less. Max's intelligent grey eyes were closed. So much blood had seeped into the colourful carpet that it was astonishing such a small body could hold it all. His skin was deathly pale, and one of the lenses in his oversize glasses had cracked, sending a web of cracks over his eye. His dark hair was matted and one of the tangles was pasted to his paper white forehead with cold, stale sweat.

Jace gulped. He didn't remember falling to his knees besides Max's body but here he was with blood soaking into the knees of his trousers. His eyes blurred with fresh tears and they fell, landing on Max's eyelashes so it looked like he was the one crying. He was barely aware of the front door opening, or the voice calling his name, or Maryse's footsteps on the stairs. He heard an intake of breath, a breath that would blow down the world, and could just feel Maryse kneel beside him, running her tentative fingers over Max's body. He thought he would throw up when he noticed the shallow cut across Max's throat, starting behind one ear and finishing behind the other in a twisted, sick parody of a smiling mouth. He didn't want to imagine how long Max must have been lying there for him to bleed this much blood out onto the floor. The assassin hadn't done a very clean job.

An intense, fiery anger reared its head inside him. He was angry at the messenger for not being more specific. He was angry at the Circle of Raziel for killing an innocent child. He was angry at Robert for presuming the target was Alec. He was angry at Maryse for leaving Max alone.

And most of all, he was angry at himself for not protecting his little brother.

Then most of the anger drained away, to be replaced by despair. He leaned down, resting his elbows on Max's delicate collar bones and leaned his forehead against the little boy's. A violent sob racked his body.

Then he was utterly still.

He had felt something. Gentle. Barely there. The brush of an eyelash.

He lifted his head up, feeling for the first time, what the nerve endings in his arms had refused to believe. He pressed his hand against Max's chest.

Under his palm was the steady pound of Max's heartbeat, like the beats of an angel's wings.

* * *

Sebastian walked up the twisting path to get to the manor he called his home. He looked up at it; appreciating how daunting it looked in the dim moonlight. He let himself in, then closed the door behind him. As soon as it slammed shut he sunk down against it, shaking. He stared at his hands - pale hands - but he couldn't stop seeing the dark stains of the boy's blood on them.

He had killed an innocent. That boy had only been about eight. No matter what he had done, what his father had told him to do, he had never killed an innocent.

He took a shaky breath, then started walking up the stairs. Past the library and living rooms on the second floor. Past the bedrooms on the third. Past the studies on the fourth. He reached the fifth floor, then walked into his father's private office.

Valentine Morgenstern sat behind an elaborately carved desk, in a regal, high-backed chair. In front of him were many papers, indecipherable scribbles, and images with a particularly unpleasant subject matter. The walls flaunted various types of old disused weaponry. The Morgensterns had made their fortune in the eighteenth Century, stealing anything and everything of value. Public galleries, private collections, displays, they were all robbed and the artefacts sold. Some of the greater spoils had been saved over the years and were boasted around the manor, which had been built off the earnings. He believed the tapestry that Wayland had asked about was a discarded - but very, very valuable - section of the original Bayeux Tapestry, that had been exposed to too much light and had faded to a barely recognisable pattern.

Morgensterns were thieves and criminals by blood.

It disgusted him.

"How did it go?" His father asked, eyeing him calculatingly. Sebastian handed over the _misericord_ he had used to do the deed.

"We were interrupted. I was not able to obtain it." He said carefully. His father's gaze turned to disapproving.

"He is dead, isn't he?" His voice was still emotionless.

"I believe so." He wondered if Valentine was noticing how hard it was for him to get the words out. "Father... the child's - _victim's_ \- brother was..." He swallowed. "I saw Jonathan Wayland there."

His father didn't react other than to raise one pale eyebrow. Despite himself, Sebastian had to hide a smile at the thought of how annoyed Clary would be if she saw that.

"Well then," he replied measuredly, "we will have to silence him."

Sebastian gulped. He knew what it meant.

"Not a word to your sister, remember?" He nodded. "You are dismissed."

Sebastian left, hoping his eagerness to get away wasn't apparent.

When he was walking to his bedroom on the third floor, he heard a soft voice.

"Sebastian?"

He turned to see Clary watching him with wide eyes. Her hair was loose. She wore a white nightdress more fit for a little girl than a teenager. That with her pale complexion and a tiny red curl resting just above her collar bone gave the impression of the ghost of a murder victim wandering the corridors.

"Clarissa." He said. He watched her lips tighten almost unperceptively.

"Why won't you just call me Clary?" She said in her quiet voice.

 _Because that's Jonathan's place._ He wanted to scream. _Because Jonathan had exactly the same burdens as me and yet was still able to be a perfect older brother. Because for two years the only time I would speak to you was when I was stressed and annoyed, so I would call you Clarissa._ Jonathan _was the one who called you Clary. Now he's gone, and I'm afraid to try and fill the hole he left in case I can't._

But he didn't say anything. _Not a word to your sister._

"Why are you up?" She clearly noticed the change in subject, but she didn't call him out on it.

"Couldn't sleep." She said simply. He smiled at her tentatively. He couldn't help but wish that sometimes she would come to him when she couldn't sleep, the way she used to go to Jonathan.

"Just try." He responded. She returned his small smile. The two Morgenstern siblings had always been slightly awkward around each other. He watched as she turned around and walked back to her room.

 _Not a word to your sister._

He wouldn't have anyway. It was what Jonathan had had in mind all along, and if there was anything he could do to honour his late brother's memory, it was this.

Keeping their sister from the darkness that had claimed them both.

* * *

 **Who here is feeling sorry for Sebastian?**

 **And that was the end of another chapter. I wasn't initially going to include Sebastian's PoV, but the duck wizard suggested it and I liked the idea.**

 **Now you know where Jonathan is. Sorry to the people who thought he sent the message.**

 **Unbeknownst to most characters, Clary holds all the cards. After next chapter we might get her PoV as we see how she plays them**

 **And in the next chapter, Clary finally meets Jace.**

 **Please review, they inspire me to keep writing. :)**


	6. Partners in Crime

**I'm back! Happy (probably late by the time I post this) World Book Day!**

 **I would have updated sooner but a) it was a Thursday, and b) I spent most of my free time on Wednesday researching things to help me untangle the vague plot line I have for this. If I tell you I was researching Radiation, Thyroids, and Cumbria, could you tell me any wild theories you might have for how it links in with this?**

 **Thank you to everyone who Reviewed, Followed, and Favoured. It means so much to me that people liked my stories enough to say that they liked them.**

 **And I know the last chapter was fairly uneventful, but I'm pretty sure Jace meets a very consequential person in this chapter.**

 **Sorry for the long AN. I'll get on with the story now.**

 **Disclaimer: You know the drill. I own only the plot.**

* * *

 _Chapter songs:_

 _How To Save A Life by The Fray_

 _Midnight by Beth Crowley_

Jace felt only numbness as he sat in the pristine hospital room.

Max's body was small amongst the soft waves of crisp white sheets. His face was the same colour, and with his eyes closed his dark hair was a splash of ink against a blank canvas. He was deathly still, his breathing silent, so only the beeping of the heart monitor showed this small boy was even alive.

Jace couldn't move his eyes from where the covers were smartly drawn up to his chin, disguising the lumps of stitches across his throat that were supposed to keep him that way.

After the operation, the doctors had deduced that Max had gone into a coma. How, remained to be answered. They was no head trauma, nothing that might trigger it.

It was simply as though he had fallen asleep never to wake up.

Dully, Jace noticed the door opening, a nurse telling him that visiting hours were over, that his guardians had forbade him to stay the night. Jace obeyed the orders without question - a rare thing - and found himself walking down the damp pavement with a neon streetlight shining above him. He looked around with only slight curiosity about where his rambling wanderings had taken him, then, not recognising the area, put his head down again.

The Clave were supported by a branch of the government. Because they technically didn't exist, there was no official paperwork, but a certain amount of money was donated to their cause per year. Some of that money had gone into constructing a hidden hospital for the members of the Clave injured on a mission. But because a) Max wasn't a member and b) He wasn't harmed on a mission, he had to be treated in an ordinary hospital, rather than the far more advanced, specialised treatment he would have received in the Clave one. Jace was more than a little bitter about it.

Without warning, or knowing _where_ it came from, he was choking on rage. Not self-hating rage this time, but anger rightfully directed at the person who had caused this.

Valentine Morgenstern.

He became suddenly aware of a weight at his hip. As he placed his hand over it, he felt the gun Sebastian had given him. The metal was cool to the touch, and seemed to hum under his fingertips.

A member of the Clave was never without weapons. He reached into his pocket for something, feeling around for the cold cylinders, then put them into the gun.

A part of him knew he was acting out of grief. That part knew he was being reckless. Knew he couldn't do this. Not wouldn't, not shouldn't: _couldn't_.

But the rest of him didn't care.

A sadistic smile twisted his features. Valentine would be killed by his own gun, but an enemy's bullet.

Then he froze with hard determination as he realised what he had just admitted to himself.

He was going to kill Valentine.

* * *

The manor looked even more foreboding at night, if that was even possible. The iridescent patterns in the stone that were noticeable by daylight had disappeared, and the walls seemed to have coalesced from shadow. He crept round the back of the garden, where he had seen the pathway that led under the large tree. If he could get to manor, there were twining ivy trellises he could climb up to a window and slip in. Some of the numbness had worn off, and instead he was just completely and utterly terrified.

But he kept going.

The ordinary noises of the night struck his nerves like a pianist strikes the keys, make them shiver. He jerked around like a puppet being pulled on a string at every sound.

By the time he stood beneath the large tree his calm demeanour was as brittle as uncooked spaghetti, and even his resolve was wavering. He took a deep breath and was about the step out of the shelter of the tree into the line of sight of the windows when-

"Fool."

Jace let out a high-pitched, quiet, very unmanly (though he would never admit it) shriek. He spun around, heart going at the speed of a hummingbird's wings. The lack of anyone in sight did nothing to calm his nerves. "Who's there?" he called hesitantly. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

The mystery voice ignored his question. "I would have thought-" Jace spun around violently again, trying to find the source "-that the infamous _Jace Herondale_ would be smarter than this."

Jace raised his torch. "Where are you?"

He thought he heard a sigh, but it may have been the rustling of leaves. There was a pause.

"Up here, you idiot."

He tentatively raised the long finger of light even higher, until it brushed the canopy of leaves overhead. A spot rustled, then rustled even more violently, and suddenly a flash of white dropped out of it to land in a crouching position before him. He jumped in shock.

It was the white-haired girl.

She straightened up. "Jumpy, aren't we?" He heard derision in her voice, but her gaze was filled with curiosity as it swept Jace from head to toe, then fastened on the gun in his hand. She scowled. "Fool." She said again.

Jace inched closer, like she was a wild animal that might bite. He swept the beam over her, taking in her plain dark clothes, her confident, assured yet tense posture, before landing on her face. She squinted, disgruntled, and he noticed that her eyes were actually a very bright shade of green. "What do you mean?" He asked, regulating his tone so it didn't reveal anything. "You don't know what I'm doing here."

She raised her eyebrows. He noticed that, as opposed to her hair, they were a faint copper colour, like her eyelashes. "So you're _not_ here to murder Valentine?" He was flabbergasted, and clearly looked it. She smirked, but it seemed... empty. Devoid of smugness. She gestured wildly as she spoke. "You're carrying a gun designed not to fire, just for show, with bullets rattling around the chamber. You're here in the dead of night, and are jumpy enough to let the world know about your guilty conscience. Your jaw is bruised from clenching it too hard, and the hand you're holding the gun with has gone white. You're clearly angry. You're intentions seem shady. You're carrying a _gun_ , for gods sake, so clearly it's to do with murdering someone. And-" her gestures stopped and she tilted her head to the side, "Valentine had his assassins kill your brother." Jace's heart clenched.

"He's not dead. The assassin did a sloppy job." He snapped out.

Her reaction was curious. A good deal of the tension bled out of her posture, along with a sigh. She passed a hand in front of her face. "I'm glad to hear that." She said finally. It was curious; why would she care so much?

What was even more curious: why did Jace believe her?

A heavy silence fell. "What do you want?" He said eventually.

"To keep you alive. This is a suicide mission."

"Why do you care?"

Some of the tension re-entered her posture, like something slotting in. "I care."

Something clicked in his head. " _You_ sent the email."

She didn't respond, but she didn't need to. He knew he was right.

"I care." She repeated. She sighed again. "And so did my brother." Her face hardened and she looked Jace in the eye. "You have questions about the Circle. I have answers. _That_ is the exchange I want. I don't know all the answers, but I know a lot." She took a deep breath. "I accept you have no reason to trust me. But _don't_ define me by who I'm associated with. _Don't_ presume you know me. And _don't_ guess at what I've been through. Whether you agree to meet me or not, I will make a difference in this conflict; it's up to you which side I fight on."

She held her hand out. Jace studied it for a moment. "What will we be?" He asked. "Friends?" She snorted. "Allies?"

She shook her head. Her pale hand still hovered eerily still between them like light reflected onto water. "Partners in crime."

He considered.

He reached over, and decisively shook it.

"Partners in crime."

* * *

 **I know this is shorter than usual, but there seemed no better place to leave it.**

 **Happy (late) World Book Day again! Did anyone do anything to celebrate it, or is it just schools around my area who do that. Please let me know.**

 **So _now_ you know who sent the email. And it appears that most of you have already worked out who the white-haired girl is, but for those that haven't, or simply for Jace's sake, you will find out for sure later on. It's probably obvious by now anyway.**

 **Does anyone have any ideas what the white-haired girl's brother has to do with this, though?**

 **Basically, I'm asking you to tell me in your reviews what theories you have. I like looking at them and some of them actually give me ideas for later on in the plot.**

 **Please review! :)**


	7. Up On the Hill Across the Blue Lake

**Hello! I know this has been a longer than normal absence, but I honestly was very busy all of a sudden, on top of not knowing what on earth to do with this chapter. I only just figured it out.**

 **Thank you to everyone who Reviewed, Followed, and Favoured. I REACHED 50 REVIEWS!**

 **Also: LADY MIDNIGHT CAME OUT TODAY! I received my copy and squealed at the short story** ** _A Long Conversation._** **It's so cute. I loved** **it.**

 **Disclaimer: I only own the plot. And I'm fairly sure everyone knows that I don't own the song _ring a ring o' roses._**

* * *

 _Chapter songs:_

 _Human by Christina Perri_

 _Don't You Worry, Child by Swedish House Mafia_

The overcast sky sent gunmetal light to turn the lake to liquid mercury. When Clary looked into it, she saw herself reflected perfectly, but she couldn't see below the surface.

The autumn air was crisp and chilly, and Clary couldn't help but shiver. Nevertheless, if only for old times sake, she stripped her shoes and socks off and dipped her toes in the metallic water from where she sat at the edge of the jetty. To her right three boats were tethered to the damp and rotting wood; her family been visiting this lake a few miles from their home for years and kept their boats there.

The smallest was clearly Clary's. Painted an emerald green in peeling paint, she could just distinguish the pencil sketches of flowers she had decorated it with. A mini-sail - it had been more her trying to get the feel of an actual boat rather than something that propelled the contraption drooped like a dying snowdrop. It was the newest boat of all of them, yet still quite old. She could still remember the days when she was too young to have her own boat, so she would sit on Jonathan's lap in his and Sebastian's shared one. They had done it up like a tiny pirate ship, despite the family having bought all rowing boats, with a black flag dangling off the bow, and a Jolly Roger attached to the makeshift mast.

Her parents boat was -surprisingly; her mother was very artistic - just a plain, slighter bigger one. Her mother hadn't painted or decorated it at all.

 _Not that she'd had the chance._ Clary gulped and tried to swallow her tears.

Clary's boat, being the most used nowadays, was in the best condition. Her parents' one had fallen into disrepair. To be honest, the twins' one probably would have too with how little Sebastian used it - but Clary refused to let it. Jonathan had loved that boat.

During her reminiscence, the moisture in the air had condensed into a thin mist that blurred and distorted everything around her. Through it, she could just make out the shadow of the silhouette of the other jetty, on the opposite side of the lake. Her throat burned. The jetty they had tried to race to.

* * *

 _Jonathan was winning. Clay had barely made it a hundred metres, whilst he was soaring over the surface in the middle of the lake, where it was deepest. His carefree laugh carried on the abnormally strong wind back to Clary, whose shoulders burned from trying to row as fast as him. Sebastian was just a shape on the receding bank. The ripples trailing from Jonathan's boat bumped and jostled hers and she fiercely regretted ever installing that stupid sail that caught the wind and dragged her back. She glanced over her shoulder, tearing her glare away from the piece of miserable fabric, to see Jonathan looking at her with a barely concealed grin. She replied in kind, with a scowl, and wished she had never risen to Jonathan's baiting to end up falling behind in a jetty-to-jetty race._

 _"Come on, Clary! You can do it!" Her brother's light voice echoed in her ears as she slashed the oars violently. She suddenly sensed a change in the temperament of the weather. The combined current and wind was too much to fight against and as she gave up she allowed herself to drift back to where Sebastian was waiting for her, no doubt with an amused expression on his face. She was surprised he had come to begin with. He didn't usually make time for her._

 _She shot a wistful gaze behind her at Jonathan's notable progress - only to freeze in horror. Sebastian was yelling out to her that she was approaching the jetty, that she needed to be ready to jump out, but when she twisted round, the look on her face killed the words in his throat. They both looked over at Jonathan - strong, determined, constant Jonathan - at the same time._

 _Just in time to see his boat capsize in the middle of a deep freezing lake._

 _They had raised the alarm. They and their parents searched the waters for hours._

 _But Jonathan was never found, dead or alive._

 _Sebastian - in a never-again-seen show of brotherly affection - held her whilst she cried, experiencing the pain of what she would always call her first heartbreak._

* * *

Clary reacted like she'd touched an electric eel. She yanked her feet out of the freezing water and jumped up. If the unvarnished deck left splinters in her bare feet she didn't feel it, instead leaping into her little boat. It swayed violently as it absorbed her momentum but she swiftly righted herself, settled into her seat, and seized the oars.

She took a deep breath. There was a humming in her ears and adrenaline in her veins. She was having one of her "reckless moments" as her brother had called them. She knew it. She knew they never ended well.

But at that moment she didn't care.

She shoved the oars into the water and pulled with all her might. They came free and splashed her. Her eyes were blurry with lake water and tears but she kept rowing blindly, feeling the hot and cold droplets tracking down her face. She let outa great shuddering sigh, before practically throwing herself back into rowing.

She should be better than this. Stronger than this.

Perhaps her father and brother were right. Perhaps she was as fragile as china, a flame that without supervision could have devastating effects.

* * *

By the time she reached the middle of the lake, the moment had passed.

She rubbed a hand over her face and let out a quiet sob. It had happened again. She had promised herself it wouldn't happen again. These breakdowns were her Achilles Heel, what made her weak, unstable as a glass explosive.

What made her dangerous.

It had been five years. Five years should be enough to reconcile yourself with a close family members death. She knew that she would never stop grieving, but she had believed that at least she would stop waking up with screaming nightmares, or stop thinking of Jonathan first whenever she saw Sebastian.

The mist coalesced around her in long tendrils. She trembled, whether from fear or cold she couldn't tell, as the damp blanket wrapped around her. The trees on the bank were no more than dark splotches.

She had never felt so small.

Clary was just so tired. Tired of grieving for her brother, or for her mother - who she honestly thought would never wake up. Tired of acting like the innocent little girl in front of the last family she had. Tired of never saying what she really thought, or just how _terrified_ of herself she was. Tired of being alone.

Tired of being treated like she was made of porcelain, when she knew she was made of steel.

When she closed her eyes, it was like a song was playing on loop in her head.

 _"Ring a ring o' roses,_

 _A pocket full of posies,_

 _Atishoo, atishoo,_

 _We all fall down."_

When she was young, perhaps five or six, she'd had two close friends. Simon Lewis and Maia Roberts. She hadn't been nearly so antisocial then. They had seen each other everyday. They'd played video games, run around the garden exploring, and made up all sorts of fantasy games to play. But their favourite by far was Ring a ring o' roses. They would hold hands, lean back and skip in circles whilst chanting the words - surprisingly, Simon had done that voluntarily; it was Maia who had needed convincing - then let go. Without each other's hands holding them upright, they would tumble to the group laughing, then do it again.

But then one day they had just stopped meeting up. She didn't know if Simon and Maia had stayed in touch with each other, but she never saw them again. And when Valentine had found her singing the nursery rhyme one day, he had yelled at her, then forbade her from singing it. She never sung it again.

Why did she always drive people away?

First Maia and Simon.

Then that golden-eyed boy.

Then Jonathan.

Then Jocelyn - distraught over her son's death - had gone into a coma.

Sebastian had disappeared a long time ago.

And Valentine was never there to begin with.

She dragged her eyes up from where they had been staring at her reflection and closed them.

Was it too much to ask that she wouldn't be alone?

* * *

 _To: Malachi Dieudonne [Assignment Coordinator and Supervisor]_

 _Hello._

 _During the quick surveillance of the manor we suspect to be the headquarters of The Circle of Raziel, I encountered a teenage girl whom I recognised as one of the residents of said manor. She clearly knew who I was, and what I was there to do, displaying notable skills of observation and deduction. She insulted my intelligence on several occasions, but offered a deal: she will give us information, so long as we are willing to trust its authenticity. Having only met with her once, I have no idea of what motives she may have to turn against the head of her household, she used the sentence "_ Whether you agree to meet me or not, I will make a difference in this conflict; it's up to you which side I fight on." _I personally believe she is insinuating that if we accept her help, she will be of assistance to us, but if we refuse, she will assist Valentine. Judging by the amount of knowledge she displayed during that brief meeting, it could be catastrophic if she were to do this._

 _I understand that you may disagree, but I have decided to accept her offer. I am informing you of my decision seeing as it seems vital to not only this mission, but the entire Clave's mandate._

 _Yours Sincerely,_

 _Jonathan Herondale._

The cursor hovered over the _send_ button.

It had been there for well over five minutes.

Jace stared at the email displayed across his screen. Warring emotions inside him built to a crescendo as he suddenly yanked the mouse and saved it to drafts.

He didn't know why he hadn't sent it, or why he hadn't even told Alec what had occurred. He had just decided to keep it a secret. It made it seem almost... personal.

 _"I care... and so did my brother."_

Nothing was making sense right now.

Except for one thing: he could trust the white-haired girl.

Of that he was certain.

* * *

A well concealed trap door hung open.

The boy - a man by now - of around eighteen or nineteen slipped in, making as much noise as an owl's wings. His blonde hair was the only giveaway he was there, and a black hood was drawn up over it to prevent the light glaring on it.

The trap door hadn't been used in years; that much was obvious. The wood was damp and stank of mould. The steps just below it skittered with rats.

The figure made his way down the shaft, a torch lighting the way, until he came to what looked like a laboratory. On the other side was a large door that led into the basement of the manor. Even from this distance he could tell the hinges were well-oiled and the doorknob well-worn. _That_ was the most used entrance.

Once-mighty shelves lined the walls, the wood worn smooth where equipment had been laid down and picked up repeatedly. No equipment remained, but that wasn't what the teenager was looking for. In the corner was a neat stack of about five notebooks. Each was leather bound and battered, with the pages covered with a strong scrawl that was only broken by the occasional diagram. The figure grabbed two books seemingly just because they were the top of the pile, taking care to scatter the rest in a messy fashion, and shoved them into his jacket. He then reached for the book that had fallen nearest, flicked through to the first diagram, and torn out the page. He took great care with the tearing, making sure he got the bit he wanted. But when he looked at it, it looked like it had been simply and thoughtlessly ripped.

The figure rose to his feet, surveying his work. It looked like a person he come in seized the most convenient books, torn out a random page, then left with the room in a mess. Perfect.

If there was anything he had learned, it was that appearances were everything.

This looked like mindless mess, something that could have been done by a petty thief who decided to do some snooping. But everything had a pattern - Clary had taught him that. He knew that Clary would see right through the illusion with what she knew, could deduce, and could guess.

But he also knew that she wasn't allowed down here. Not that that would stop her, but she would be more conservative with her investigating.

His secret was safe for now.

He slipped back out the way he came, and disappeared into the night.

* * *

 **Longer than usual chapter! Sorry if there are any mistakes. I'd edit it, but it's getting late so I'll have to do it tomorrow.**

 **That last part was complete improvisation. I only realised what I wanted to do with it half way through and then edited it accordingly.**

 **So now you have a bit of Clary's past. She's practically been raising herself for the past few years.**

 **Who do you think the mysterious figure at the end is?**

 **Please Review! I love to hear your theories. Some of them are really close.**


	8. Lies & Bullets Ricochet

**Thanks to everyone who Reviewed, Followed, and Favoured. It means so much to me!**

 **Note: Not much will happen the next few chapters. There will be some answers, but not much action. But I assure you there will be lots more later on.**

 **Finally, a few people have been confused as to who the white-haired girl is. It's made obvious (I hope? My mind works in weird ways) in this chapter.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own the Mortal Instruments. I am not Cassandra Clare.**

* * *

 _Chapter song:_

 _The Lonely by Christina Perri_

 _Sebastian knows you are connected to the Lightwoods. You need to quit your job as a "guard" and never show your face at the manor unless it's under the cover of darkness again._

Well this made things complicated.

Jace let out a sigh. He still couldn't bring himself to tell Malachi about the strange, strange girl he'd foolhardily agreed to correspond with. Now he knew she was sending the anonymous emails, he had been slightly wary opening it, but the email was just as curt and urgent as the warning one.

It appeared that the girl didn't believe in beating around the bush.

He cocked his head slightly, realising how little he knew about her. A faint smile spread across his face and he started tapping the keys.

 _Aye, aye, Captain._

He was sure the dry tone just echoed out of the words.

 _I realised I barely know anything about you. Scratch that: I know_ nothing _about you. So here are a list of questions I expect you to answer if you want me to turn up for the interrogation._

It was a lie. Something about that girl intrigued him. He just hoped she didn't know that.

 _What's your name?_

 _Who are you?_

 _How old are you?_

 _Why are you offering to help me?_

 _Where did you learn such deduction skills, and why?_

 _There. Five questions. Not that hard. So answer them, or I won't turn up._

He sent the message. A few minutes later - incredibly fast; was she sitting staring at her emails for something like that? - a reply came.

 _Liar._ It read.

 _Damn it._

* * *

Clary heard the whooshing sound that meant an email entered her account.

She was surprised she had an account at all. But it was a way for Sebastian - and in better days, Jonathan - to keep in touch with her when Valentine dragged him on spontaneous trips halfway round the world. They weren't _technically_ allowed to contact each other in those times, which was why they went with email instead of slightly more obvious phone calls.

When she tapped the few buttons that opened her emails, she immediately saw one from Jace Herondale. She rolled her eyes. Way to be unobtrusive.

Not to mention he rambled for most of the email.

She bit her lip. He had a point. He deserved to at least know her name. But if she told him her full name she would instantly be pegged as an enemy. If she told him her nickname he would still know who she was. She could tell him her middle name and pass it as her first but...

Nevertheless, she humoured him by typing out a reply. The threat that he had made was empty, he knew it, she knew it, and she was prepared to bet he knew that she knew. It was a pointless waste of letters.

But just in case he _didn't_ know she knew, she made it clear in her four-lettered reply.

 _Liar._

She smirked as it sent, imagining his face. The smirk dropped suddenly and she spun round in her chair, kicking off the wall and propelling herself into the middle of the room.

She couldn't help spinning herself round in circles several times and letting out faint giggles. No matter how old she got, she would always act like a kid when she sat in spinning chairs.

Eventually she stopped. She stood up, and walked over to stand in front of the large mirror hanging on the wall in her room. She surveyed herself critically.

She could have passed for her mother's much younger twin. Her eyes had never lost the large roundness that children's eyes had, only on her - without the plump cheeks and chubby face - they looked wide and slightly haunted. Golden freckles dotted her small nose and cheekbones like flecks of precious metal in a mine. Her eyelashes were delicate copper wires and her eyebrows were the same colour, but her long hair was white, the same shade as her father and brother's. It still fell in unruly curls that were a pain to untangle, but it didn't feel like hers anymore.

She hated it.

At first she hadn't minded. When her brother had suggested it, and her father had approved, she had never considered that her father might have ulterior motives.

She had agreed to honour Jonathan. If he couldn't be with them, the least she could do was adopt his hair colour as a way of memory.

She was a fool.

Soon after Jonathan had died, Jocelyn had gone into her coma. They had been growing closer during the weeks before the boating trip. Clary - being young - had been jealous of her brother getting all the attention. She was ashamed to admit the envy she felt when she walked past them in the hallway and they were so deep in conversation that they didn't notice her, or when she would open the door to a room and they would immediately halt their hushed discussion. On some deep subconscious level, it hurt.

But that jealousy had been all sadness as she watched the grief take its toll on her mother, as she wasted away before he very eyes. Eventually it had become too much and she had succumbed to a coma.

Overcome by the emotions that came with the loss of her two closest family members, Clary had agreed to dye her hair without a second thought. Now she was wondering if her father wanted her to undertake the action not to honour Jonathan, but so he didn't have to see the ghost of his absent wife wandering about the halls.

Now the dye was beginning to wear off; the colour was becoming darker, though it was still technically blonde. Once it wore off completely she planned to keep it her natural red, despite her family's wishes.

It was a small act of rebellion. But once all small things add up, they can blow anything out of proportion.

* * *

"So did you find out who sent the email?"

Jace slammed down the lid of the computer fast enough to raise suspicions. Clearly it did; as Jace pivoted in his seat he saw Alec watching him with narrowed eyes from where he sat on the bed. Jace kept his face neutral.

"Not yet." He met his adoptive brother's blue eyes with a steady gaze. He had always been a good liar and this time was no exception. Alec flicked his eyes to the right, his index finger tapping his chin thoughtfully.

"Let's check your emails to see if you've received anymore." He reached for the computer.

"No, Alec, I don't think-" But Alec had already pulled it onto his lap and was tapping something in.

"How do you know my password?!" Jace demanded, horrified.

Alec didn't even look up from scrolling through Jace's emails. "Izzy."

An indignant voice sounded from outside. "I did no such thing!"

Jace and Alec both exchanged a look, chuckling. "It's rude to eavesdrop, Izzy!" Jace called.

"So is accusing your only sister of crimes she didn't commit!" She responded swiftly. Jace laughed again, but when he looked over at Alec, his brother was rigid.

 _Oh._

"Jace." Alec's voice was level, but tight, like he was talking through gritted teeth. "Care to explain this?" He gestured at the screen, where Jace had no doubt his emails to and from the white-haired girl were open.

Jace cast his eyes to the floor and tried to adopt a casual air. He beamed an undisturbed smile. "Well, you see-"

" _Seriously_ , Jonathan." Alec almost growled. Jace's completely fake smile dropped.

"Um..." He shifted in his seat. "Um, there's this girl..."

* * *

Despite the warning, he decided to ignore the girl's words and turned up for his shift at the Manor. After he had explained everything to Alec, his brother had told him straight out not to come. That the girl had been right once, that she might be right again. Alec was always the one who heeded a warning.

Jace, on the other hand, charged into the danger he was explicitly told to avoid, foolishly and recklessly.

Hence the fact he was here.

Sebastian had shamelessly stood in the doorway and studied him for a good five minutes before ushering him in. Jace noticed they took a very long, winding, circuitous route, despite the fact that the spot he was in was the spot he stood on his first day. As he walked away, Sebastian shot Jace a look over his shoulder that made him uneasy. It was the look a person hunting game gave a sitting duck.

About three quarters of an hour later, the white-haired girl walked down the corridor. Jace smirked at the look of pure exasperation she gave him as she came in sight. As she drew nearer, she seemed dead set on ignoring him. His smirk never faltering, he opened his mouth, but the look she shot him shut it before he could say anything. Out of the corner of her eye, barely a flick of a glance, it was filled with exasperation still, warning, the famous _don't be stupid_ look, and it was even a little threatening.

As he watched her bright head disappear beyond the corridor like the moon sinking below the tide, he remembered another thing Alec had said.

 _She has her motives, unknown to you. Don't trust her until you know her story._

* * *

Jace had only told Alec his real destination. The rest of them didn't have a clue where he really was.

He had been standing here for fifteen minutes and she hadn't showed up. And it was cold. He checked his watch. He could wait another five minutes but then-

He froze, his sharp ears detecting a faint sound. As the pieces clicked together in his mind, he let out a strangled laugh and addressed the leaves above him. "How long have you been up there?" He probably looked mad talking to a tree but he had definitely heard a very human sigh. He barely flinched as she dropped down next to him, pale hair waving like a banner.

"Long enough to know that you are not an alert person." He rolled his eyes. Unfazed, she continued. "Also a very foolish one. What the hell were you thinking? I _told_ you not to show up at the manor this afternoon."

He smirked at her glare, it was sort of cute having such a small person lecture him. "I'm not afraid." She was not amused.

"God, you're a hard person to keep alive." She rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand.

"What?" He was sure he heard that last part wrong.

"You heard me." She cast him a look of disdain, before holding out a hand. "Adele Fray. Sixteen years old-"

"Only sixteen?" He was repressing a chuckle. She could tell. She glared.

"I'll be seventeen next week." She snapped. He had the oddest sense of déjà vu that he couldn't quite put his finger on. "Anyway. Youngest of three, only girl. I'm offering to help you because I have a personal agenda. As for my deduction skills, it's just the way my mind works and I taught myself to take advantage of that." She looked at him expectantly.

"Um..."

"Now I've answered five of your questions, you need to answer one of mine." He nodded. "How is your little brother doing?"

He had not been expecting that. He hoped he did a good job keeping his emotions off his face.

"He went into a strange coma. We don't know what it was triggered by." Adele tilted her head to the side, eyebrows furrowed. Jace could imagine this new piece of information slotted in amongst the gears in her head, the cogs turning as she tried to process it.

He coughed suddenly. "So, I have three questions."

She raised her eyebrows but nodded. "Shoot."

"One of them is sort of personal." She shrugged.

"I can always choose not to answer it."

 _Fair point._ He swallowed. "Why does Valentine employ guards? They don't do anything."

A faint smile had appeared on her face. "Appearances are everything." She paused and he motioned for her to continue, slightly irritated by how vague she was being. "Valentine's business involves threatening people into working for him, and intimidating those who might stand up to him. He employs guards to give the impression that if a person disobeys him, nothing good will come of it. It's all for show. He chooses people based on what they look like, not strength or- "Her eyes shamelessly scrutinised Jace "intelligence."

"Hey!"

"It's an intimidation tactic." She finished. "Next?"

He grudgingly let it go. "Why would Sebastian give me a gun with no bullets?"

She narrowed her eyes, like she was reassessing him. "A blank shot doesn't ricochet." He was tired of her evasive responses.

"But neither does it have any effect."

She ignored him. "It's the same as the guards. If the victims can see the guns, they will still be intimidated. And if one of them tries to run, a guard can fire a blank shot at them. Their fear of getting hit will do all the work a bullet couldn't, and if a bullet was never fired there's no chance of it hitting the wrong target or bouncing back and hitting the one who fired it."

That made sense. "Third question."

He pursed his lips, half-thinking he would have to pry the answer out of her. "Why were you so nice when I first met you, but distant and cold all the other times? One minute you're giving me an apple, the next you're insulting my intelligence."

Her posture was tense, but he could tell what she said was the truth. Not that it helped much. Her answers hadn't gotten any clearer.

She studied him thoughtfully for a moment. Despite her tight shoulders, her green eyes were open and shining with emotions. They were _honest._

"You surprised me."

* * *

 **And I finished another chapter! Now you definitely know who the white-haired girl is.**

 **Sorry if there are any mistakes. It's late and I'll have to proofread it tomorrow.**

 **So what do _you_ make of Clary answer to the last question? Have anyone's theories changed? Please tell me!**

 **Review?**


	9. Blurring the Lines

**Hello! Sorry, I would have updated sooner but whilst I haven't been catastrophically busy, I didn't have enough time to write.**

 **Thank you to everyone who Followed, Favoured and Reviewed! I love you all!**

 **I also realised that this will probably be a very long fan fiction. I have a lot planned to happen but I just need to build up the basic character relationships first before I throw them all in the deep end.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own the Mortal Instruments Series. I'm not Cassandra Clare.**

* * *

 _Chapter songs:_

 _Teardrops on My Guitar_

 _Curiosity by Iggy Pop_

Isabelle Lightwood was jealous. It was an unfamiliar feeling to say the least.

She wasn't the jealous type. She was beautiful, she knew she was beautiful, and the rest of the world knew it too. All she had to do was smile at someone and she suddenly held their heart in her hands. More often than not, they ended up broken, with imprints where her stiletto heels had walked all over them. She was used to it by now; they should be used to it. She was accustomed to half the male population hating her, and the other half worshipping her - at least at the Institute. When the adults were forced to discuss it, they would shake their heads and mutter "You're a heartbreaker, Isabelle". She couldn't disagree. But that didn't mean the label was fair.

It wasn't her fault they gave her their hearts like they were sharing sweets. It wasn't her fault hearts were so easily broken.

But this shattering she felt in her chest, she wouldn't wish upon anyone.

Simon had barely glanced at her from his spot at the bottom of the steps they had decided to meet at, his eyes instantly fastening on the girl next to her like Isabelle's gaze was radioactive and damaging for those who held it for too long. He was almost avoiding looking at her.

Now he stood, neck angled downwards to meet the slightly shorter girl's gaze. Isabelle - for the millionth time - wished she was small, so Simon could easily look her in the eye. With her height, when she wore heels (which were her daily uniform) she towered over everyone in a way that was practically Amazonian. She watched in fascination as Simon's earnest brown eyes flicked to hers briefly, before hastily looking at Maia again. The girl's caramel locks bounced around her face as she nodded at Simon, saying something that didn't manage to penetrate Isabelle's thoughts.

Maia was fairly pretty. Her skin was smooth and golden brown, her bright brown eyes threaded with amber. Long eyelashes dripped shadows onto high cheekbones, and her nose was fairly small. But sometimes Isabelle felt a rush of resentment when she caught Simon looking at her in _that_ way. Butterflies rose in her stomach every time he smiled or pushed his glasses to the bridge of his nose, or even nodded at her, and they wanted to swarm Maia and smother her in their delicate, lace wings at those times. She was frankly quite scared - fearless Isabelle - _scared_ of the feeling she got. It was angry, betrayed, aggressive, and hurt all at the same time.

What was he doing to her?

She suddenly tuned into Simon and Maia's conversation.

"...natural." Maia was saying. "I'll see you later?" Simon bobbed his head. Isabelle had to stop herself from staring at the slight quirk to the side of his mouth as he turned and left, only giving her the briefest "Bye."

"What was that about?" Isabelle found herself saying. Maia was beaming but something seemed... forced... about it. Isabelle dismissed the thought as paranoia.

"Simon asked me on a date!" Maia's voice was the oddest squeak.

No, Isabelle Lightwood wasn't a heartbreaker. Because heartbreakers didn't get their hearts broken.

* * *

Jace shook his head, trying to clear his mind of thoughts. He could feel a headache coming on. Why was that? No, no more questions. If you asked questions you wouldn't get a straight answer. You would get an indirect answer which only led to more questions. Curse the human instinctual need for knowledge. Questions...

He let out a loud groan, and sank into his pillow. This was surprisingly effective at silencing his inner monologue. The familiar stitch of the pillow rubbed his face like a comforting pat on the cheek. He sighed and closed his eyes against the torrent of thoughts threatening to give him a migraine.

Recently, so much of his thought capacity had been taken up by this girl. Adele. He liked her name. It felt natural to say.

But seriously, she was a conundrum. Even when he received the mysterious email he hadn't given it much thought, though in hindsight he realised he probably should have. Maybe then he would have realised it was referring to Max. But he hadn't.

And then he had met her on the job. He had been faintly intrigued by the innocent little girl in the less-than-innocent environment, but that was it. Only enough intrigue to solidify the encounter in his brain.

But when she had nearly given him a heart attack by dropping out of the tree, unfazed by confiding in a complete stranger, she had lit a fire in his curiosity. He had asked her questions later on via email, but when she evaded them it only served to heighten his insatiable curiosity. Then a few hours ago, when he finally received the answers, they were so vague that they blew his curiosity way out of proportion. She was driving him crazy.

Abandoning that infuriating train of thought, he rolled off the bed and headed to the bathroom to shower. He needed an early night; he had an early shift at the manor the next day. His superiors were grilling him for information - information he didn't have. They wouldn't be happy if he slipped up and got fired - or killed, he reminded himself. Though admittedly he wondered whether they would care more about the loss of life or loss of an information source.

He mindlessly wondered whether he was doing the right thing. Adele _had_ warned him-

And now he was thinking of her again. Really, it was a vicious circle.

* * *

Clary leaned on a floorboard, testing her weight against it. When it kept its silence, she stepped forward onto it.

She wore thin latex gloves, not entirely sure what she would find in Valentine's "experiment room" and not wanting to be identified by her fingerprints. The torch in her hand was bulky, with a comfortable easy-to-hold plastic handle, but the battery was running low. The light was slowly dimming and she had forgotten to bring spare batteries. She cursed mentally. This would have to be quick.

When she reached the door to the cellar, she hesitated. For as long as she could remember the cellar was that one forbidden place you couldn't enter. The place that captured children's imaginations and sent their thoughts running to consider what might be in there. Most people lost such presumptions as they grew up, but Clary had never had someone brush away the cobwebs of childhood, and a snippet of her dark, terrified fantasies lingered.

She reached out to turn the handle, and stepped inside.

The ceiling wasn't high, but it wasn't as low as she might expect in a cellar. Deep alcoves in the wall held bloody syringes, beakers and glass vials. She walked for a little bit, then came to where the space in the alcoves was insufficient and the equipment was also piled on great shelves. They formed a wide circle around a massive, seemingly ordinary table cluttered with broken pens and copious amounts of paper, notes slashed into them like scars. Heavy books also littered the table carelessly, lots of them left open to the last page read. In some places were the remains of what appeared to be failed science experiments. A computer sat open in the corner, the screen blank.

Clary's heart quickened its pace. Valentine was brutally neat. So much so, that sometimes he was practically OCD. He must have been in a fine rage to have created such a mess, or a work induced frenzy, or-

Or he wasn't the one who made it.

She studied the mess more closely. Indeed, it didn't look like it was messy right to the bottom of the pile. She shifted a few books and found neatly stacked, alphabetised notes.

Her brows furrowed. If there was only a small amount of mess, that suggested it had been done in haste, by someone not meant to be here. She ran a critical eye over the table and noticed a small circle of books, like ripples spreading out from a point of initiation. She made her way over to it. The books appeared to have been carelessly tossed aside, so if an intruder had entered, then they had seized random books and flung them far and wide. Her forehead creased even deeper. What had happened?

She pulled a random book towards her a flicked through it half-heartedly, briefly skim reading the pages. It was enough. Enough to notice the gruesomely detailed notes, and the painstakingly sketched, sickening diagrams. Valentine seemed to be experimenting on humans - on his own body. She wanted to throw up. Closing her eyes and shuddering, she tried to make sense of _why_ he would inject himself with strange chemicals, but the turning of her stomach forced her to move onto another topic, or the steaming puddle of vomit would prove testament to her crime.

She made her way over to the other side of the room. It was purely made up of one massive bookcase. Stretching up and up, shelves and shelves and shelves of hardback volumes. She ran a glance up the spines, some looking so fragile even the force of her gaze might cause them to crumble. They were all to do with science. Not confined to Physics, Biology or Chemistry, but all hovered around the subject of radiation and chemicals that caused it and the effects it had on the human body. What could this mean?

Looking up, she saw a set of books just within her reach. They was bound in a box set, but one was missing. She reached up, and tugged the remaining two down. Their titles were faded, but Clary could tell the book in her left hand read _How Radiation Works_ , with a one in Roman Numerals emblazoned on the spine, and the book in her right said _Why Radiation Happens_ , with a two in Roman Numerals emblazoned on the spine. She frowned, and returned them to the box set.

Trailing back to the cluttered table, her eyes picked out a book with a similar binding to the two she had just picked up. Sure enough, judging by the three on the spine, and the title _Famous Cases of Radiation Studied in Detail_ , it was the missing book in the trilogy. She eyed it for a little longer before she noticed something. The page it was open to had been ripped out.

That confirmed it. Someone had broken in to the cellar recently, and made off with information.

The only question was: was it the Clave, or someone else?

* * *

Jace had let out a grunt when his alarm went off, as it was announcing that it was five in the morning and that he needed to get up to go to his shift at the manor. He had rolled out of bed, and forced himself to get ready.

An hour later he was walking up the drive to the manor with leaden feet. Sebastian had treated him just as oddly and unsettlingly as the day before and led him to the same, uneventful place he had first discovered the mark of the Circle. And thus the boring day began.

But after a few hours, he spied Adele walking down the corridor _again_ , in the same direction. He wondered if she had a routine. He grinned at her knowingly, and she responded with a glance that was half-exasperation, half-amusement, and - to his eternal astonishment - a faint quirking of the corner of her mouth into what sort of almost could be taken for a half-smile. He found himself transfixed by it. She could _smile_? Did he do that?

She reached into her pocket and pulled out another apple, this one a dull yellow. As she neared him, she quite obviously held it out for him to take. Warily, he accepted it, and it was only after she was out of sight did he stop feeling the warm, dry brush of her fingertips and acknowledge the tiny piece of folded up paper stuck to the fruit.

He pulled it off. Biting into the apple, he unfolded it and read it through.

 _After your shift, go to the public library and take out the book:_ Famous Cases of Radiation Studied in Detail. _Find page 392 and take a photo of it. Make sure the image is clear. Then send it to me._

 _Adele_

Her handwriting was small and loopy, making the words look like strings of flowers on the page. She dotted her i's with circles. He vaguely noticed that she wrote the name _A_ _dele_ in the middle of the page, as opposed the left, where you would expect a middle name to come if one was writing their full name.

He glanced after her, though she was long gone, then looked back at the note. Anonymous emails, secret meetings, unclear errands. One moment cold and hard, the next smiling (possibly). This girl was the most confusing person he had ever met.

She had dropped into his life from where she had been perched on her tree branch, and blurred the lines between Friend and Acquaintance, Trust and Blind Faith, and Clarity and Confusion.

Maybe one day this would all make sense.

One day.

* * *

 **And there's the end. Sorry if it's short.**

 **What did you think of Simon and Isabelle? What do you think Valentine's up to? What do you think Clary wants with that book? _Now_ who do you think broke into the cellar?**

 **Please Review! I love hearing your thoughts.**


	10. Watch it Burn

**So I didn't get as many reviews on the last chapter, which was sad, but hopefully it will turn around.**

 **Disclaimer: I own only the plot. None of the characters.**

* * *

 _Chapter song:_

 _Remembering by Ultravox_

 _Seventeen by Beth Crowley_

Jace sat on the bus, his bag piled onto the seat beside him, eyes tracking every slight movement he could detect beyond the steamy, rain-sprinkled window. If he knew anything it was this: never let your guard down. Even on a place as seemingly innocent as a public bus.

His brows creased and he picked up the note again. He had read it so many times that though it had originally been folded into a tiny square with crisp sharp edges, the worn paper was now soft and creased, the edges curling slightly.

Every time he questioned his motives, every time he questioned her motives, every time he simply thought _what the hell am I doing here?_ , he read the note again. That in itself was enough to reinstall the reckless - probably foolish - sense of trust he got when he was around her.

Feeling the bus stop, he glanced up to see two people step on. One of the them Jace knew: Maia, Isabelle's friend. She wasn't a part of the Clave, but she occasionally worked with them, using her rich family's connections to get them what they needed. As far a Jace knew, the girl's parents had no idea what their daughter had gotten herself into.

She was accompanied by a bespectacled boy with brown hair and a face that distinctly put Jace in mind of a weasel. No, not a weasel - a rat. The boy seemed about Isabelle or Adele's age, and was talking animatedly with accompanying wide hand gestures. Maia was listening intently, nodding her head and sending her dark braids swinging. Jace caught the word "video game" before he gave up trying to understand their discussion.

As luck would have it, the pair took the two seats directly in front of Jace. Maia noticed him first and gave him a small smile. "Hey, Jace."

"Maia, Rat-Face." He said with as much dignity as he could muster. Maia laughed a little, whereas Simon's eyes narrowed behind their lenses. Jace ignored him. "I hadn't expected to see you here."

"My name isn't _Rat-Face_!" The boy said, clearly annoyed. Jace watched with maddening amusement. "It's _Simon_! Simon Lewis." _Simon_ stopped gesturing violently and very pointedly turned his back. Maia shot Jace an apologetic look before following suit. Jace only rolled his eyes.

Throughout the journey, he noticed several furtive glances exchanged between the couple. Finally, Maia let out a sigh and moved to hold Simon's hand. She then put her head on his shoulder.

Something clicked. _Simon_? The boy Isabelle kept going on about, who was friends with her and Maia yet knew nothing about the Clave? The boy Isabelle said was cute? Jace inwardly snorted, then remembered something.

Simon: the boy his sister had a crush on, and who was with her best friend.

* * *

For the rest of the journey Jace had to be content with shooting surreptitious dagger glares at the couple's back. Not that he minded making a scene, but he didn't imagine that Isabelle would be overly thrilled with him if he did. And an angry Isabelle was a demon no one should have to encounter.

By the time he was off the bus, the rain had dissipated to a fine moist mist, shrouding everything in shadow. He was more than happy to leave the lovebirds to their stiflingly awkward silence and wasted no time in evacuating the vehicle, even if the day he willingly went into a library was the day Hell froze over. He wasn't big on reading and research, preferring the more physical aspects of his trade.

The library wasn't actually that impressive. There were no grand ceilings, rows upon rows of bookshelves, or old dusty untouched books that you would generally expect to be described in a novel. There was a clear divide where the children's, adult's and teen's section began and ended, and the fiction and non-fiction books were clearly separated. There was no withered old hag serving as a librarian like in fairy tales, nor was there the plump, rosy-cheeked, beaming person found in other children's books. There was just a middle-aged man with brown hair and a square jaw tapping away on a computer at a desk.

Jace wandered mindlessly down the aisles until his attention was grabbed by a big sign printed in black: NON-FICTION, HISTORY. He blinked, then looked around. Each aisles was labelled with a similar sign. ENGLISH LITERATURE and MATHS and then GEOGRAPHY. He spun on his heel to look at the label on the aisle he had just passed.

NON-FICTION, SCIENCE.

 _Oh._

He trailed down the aisle, actually paying attention this time. Fortunately, the books were arranged in alphabetical order and he was at the Z end. Radiation shouldn't be too far off. He fixed his eyes on the shelves then began walking. _Zoology, Vegetation, Time, Sociology, Sound_ -

Then he collided with someone.

He stumbled back swiftly, only his finely honed sense of balance saving him from falling. He'd been completely caught off guard. As he steadied himself, he met two anxious eyes looking at him.

"Are you okay?" The person asked. He was a man, about forty years old, who was fairly tall with a large book held open in his hands. He had an honest face, which was now full of worry. If Jace wasn't so paranoid, he would have liked him immediately.

"Yeah, I'm fine." He nodded, the fog in his head starting to clear. "Just looking for a book. Sorry, I wasn't paying attention to where I was going."

"It's no problem." The man's voice had laughter in it, though it seemed strained. "You don't see many young people in the library nowadays. I'd received the impression no one came here willingly anymore."

Jace shook his head, suddenly wanting to make conversation. The man was charismatic. "Trust me, I'm not here willingly. My-" What was Adele? "-friend emailed me and asked me to photograph a page out of a book for her."

The man raised an eyebrow. "Your girlfriend?"

Jace felt his face grow hot, for no reason, he thought. "What? No. We're just friends. No."

"Which book? I'll help you find it."

"Um..." Jace, grateful for the change of subject, fumbled with the slip of paper and read it, taking care not to let the man see what was really written whilst he checked the book name. " _Famous Cases of Radiation Studied in Detail._ "

The man froze.

"This one?" He asked cautiously, angling the cover of the book towards him. Jace read the title, and sure enough, it was the right book. He nodded.

The man handed it to Jace, who rifled through the pages until he found the one he wanted. Whilst Jace was taking the photo, the man made conversation.

"So why would a young girl want to read a book as advanced as that? A bit of heavy reading?" He joked, but his voice held weight.

As always, the lies rolled of Jace's tongue with ease. "She's either taking advanced classes, wants to research a random subject in depth, or has been assigned extra reading to do around the topic. I don't know. I wasn't really listening to her explanation."

The man snorted. "Some friend you are." Jace shrugged.

"I'm here, aren't I?" The man fell silent.

"Done." Jace said, checking the quality of the photos. It was good, at least clear enough to read. He put his phone away, satisfied, and handed the book back to the man, who was surveying him with his head cocked. He took the book back slowly.

"Are you close friends?" There was an edge to his voice. Jace got the horrible feeling he knew he was lying. If so, however, he didn't call his bluff.

"Yeah, I've known her a few years." The man's lips tightened slightly.

"Well have a good day." He said, suddenly and abruptly, stalking off. Jace was left slightly disoriented. _What was that?_

At the end of the aisle, the man stopped and shuffled the pages to get to the one he was at before. Even from this distance, Jace's eyes could discern - barely - the page number.

 _393._

* * *

As soon as Jace stepped through the door to the Lightwood residence, he greeted by an unusual sight. On the sofa sat Isabelle and Alec. Isabelle's eyes were closed and tears were leaking from under her eyelids as she gripped her brother like she would a lifeline. Jace felt his heart clench as he saw her shoulders shake with suppressed sobs. Fearless, untouchable Isabelle.

Alec looked up at that moment and caught Jace's gaze. The misery and anger that must be prominent in Jace's face was mirrored in his as he mouthed _Don't ask_.

Jace didn't need to. He was already suppressing the urge to ram Rat-Face's glasses down his throat.

He quietly shut the living room door and padded up the stairs to his room. Once he had sent the photos from his phone to his computer, then sent them to Adele, he had barely logged out and lain on the bed when an authorative knock sounded on the door.

He mumbled "come in", almost unintelligible, but clearly Robert heard it as he swung the door open. Or maybe he would have done that anyway.

"Jace." He said, his broad shoulders tense. Jace hadn't realised it before, but Robert suddenly looked really tired. His eyes were sunk in folds and his hair liberally painted grey. "Come downstairs. Maryse and I need to talk to you. We would have Alec and Isabelle there too but they are... indisposed." Robert didn't need to elaborate.

"I'm coming."

With a curt nod, Robert left the room.

Within the minute Jace was softly descending the stairs and entering the study, where Maryse and Robert sat across the large desk from him. He took the left hand chair of the three available, having always sat there when he was called in with the Lightwood siblings. He noticed that though the couple were facing him together, their shoulders weren't touching and the air between them seemed fraught with tension. Whereas they usually held hands - the most public display of affection they generally did - Maryse's fingers were now laced together as though to stop them from twitching and Robert lay one on the of the other on the desk.

It made Jace uneasy.

"Jace," Robert began, then Maryse shot him a look and he stopped.

"Jace," Maryse continued. "During your mission, you say you've discovered the leader of the Circle of Raziel."

Jace nodded. "Valentine Morgenstern."

The reaction that came from his name was surprising. Maryse visibly flinched, jerking her elbows off the table to grasp her arms like she was defending her stomach. Robert's head snapped to the side like he'd been slapped and a shudder racked his body briefly.

"Yes." Maryse said weakly. Robert held a stony silence. "That is who we mean." She took a deep breath and looked Jace dead in the eye.

"I'm sure you know, Jace, that Robert and I knew your parents from when we were very young." Jace nodded. He'd heard the story a thousand times.

"Well, there were more people in our little group than just me, Robert, Celine and Stephen. There was Lucian - or Luke - and Amatis Graymark, who were siblings. There was Jocelyn Fairchild, Michael Wayland - and Valentine Morgenstern."

Jace drew in a breath. Maryse continued as though he hadn't.

"Luke and Valentine were best friends. Valentine and Jocelyn were the main couple of the group, and later got married." _Jocelyn Morgenstern_ Jace remembered. "Everyone could tell that Luke loved Jocelyn, but he let them marry without a word. He was an incredibly selfless person. He stood back and watched as his two closest friends had two sons, then a daughter-"

"Sebastian and Clarissa." Jace said. Maryse nodded.

"And Jonathan."

Jace frowned slightly, remembering back to his imaginary friend Clary. She had had two brothers named Sebastian and Jonathan. He presumed he had heard the names and fitted them to his story.

"We were still in contact with each other at this point." Maryse continued, blissfully unaware of Jace's thought path. "And we couldn't fail to notice how just after Clarissa's second birthday Valentine began to draw away, become more reclusive. Luke and Jocelyn would discuss it, when Jocelyn wasn't caring for her children, but no one knew what was happening. We lost contact with the Morgensterns when they suddenly moved, but from what we've learned recently we can deduce what happened.

 _Something_ happened to Valentine to cause him to neglect his wife, children, and friends. _Something_ , be it an obsession, fear, or compulsion, drove him to madness until he was no longer recognisable as the man we all knew. Years later, your father and mother tracked the family down. You would have been about nine. They took you with them to try and talk some sense into Valentine." Maryse took a deep breath; her pupils were blown wide. She closed her eyes tightly as she continued. "An argument must have broke out, I don't know, but what I do know is that it ended up with you and your parents imprisoned, and your parents dead."

Jace found there was no air in his lungs.

"Why didn't you tell the Clave this?" He asked tentatively. Maryse grimaced.

"We weren't sure. We only know this much by filling in the gaps. We have done so now that we're certain." Jace nodded. There was an awkward silence.

"You may leave, Jace."

He left with a heart much heavier than the one he'd carried in.

* * *

As soon as he'd reached his room, Jace had opened his emails, opened drafts, and stared at the unsent message.

 _To: Malachi Dieudonne [Assignment Coordinator and Supervisor]_

 _Hello._

 _During the quick surveillance of the manor we suspect to be the headquarters of The Circle of Raziel, I encountered a teenage girl whom I recognised as one of the residents of said manor. She clearly knew who I was, and what I was there to do, displaying notable skills of observation and deduction. She insulted my intelligence on several occasions, but offered a deal: she will give us information, so long as we are willing to trust its authenticity. Having only met with her once, I have no idea of what motives she may have to turn against the head of her household, she used the sentence "_ Whether you agree to meet me or not, I will make a difference in this conflict; it's up to you which side I fight on." _I personally believe she is insinuating that if we accept her help, she will be of assistance to us, but if we refuse, she will assist Valentine. Judging by the amount of knowledge she displayed during that brief meeting, it could be catastrophic if she were to do this._

 _I understand that you may disagree, but I have decided to accept her offer. I am informing you of my decision seeing as it seems vital to not only this mission, but the entire Clave's mandate._

 _Yours Sincerely,_

 _Jonathan Herondale._

He tilted his head, then typed it out again.

 _To: Malachi Dieudonne [Assignment Coordinator and Supervisor]_

 _Hello._

 _A few days ago, during the quick surveillance of the manor we suspect to be the headquarters of The Circle of Raziel, I encountered a teenage girl whom I recognised as one of the residents of said manor. She clearly knew who I was, and what I was there to do, displaying notable skills of observation and deduction. She insulted my intelligence on several occasions, but offered a deal: she will give us information, so long as we are willing to trust its authenticity. I am uncertain of what motives she may have to turn against the head of her household, other than that she has some sort of agenda against Valentine Morgenstern, She used the sentence "_ Whether you agree to meet me or not, I will make a difference in this conflict; it's up to you which side I fight on." _I personally believe she is insinuating that if we accept her help, she will be of assistance to us, but if we refuse, she will assist Valentine. Judging by the amount of knowledge she displayed during that brief meeting, it could be catastrophic if she were to do this._

 _I apologise if my actions were out of line, but I accepted her offer and have been collaborating with this girl (whom I found is named Adele Fray) ever since. She has warned me of several things, and seems wiling to freely answer the questions I ask._

 _I understand that you may disagree with my decision, but it is already made and the deed done. I am informing you seeing as it seems vital to not only this mission, but the entire Clave's mandate._

 _Yours Sincerely,_

 _Jonathan Herondale._

He swallowed. His throat was unusually dry. He watched it send with no small amount of apprehension.

He'd thrown the fat in the fire.

Now all that was left to do was watch it burn.

* * *

 **One of the longest chapters I've ever written.**

 **What did you think of the backstory? Who do you think that man was in the library? What was he doing on _that_ page of _that_ book? Have your theories changed?**

 **Please tell me your thoughts. Review!**


	11. We're Not In Hell

**Thank you to everyone who Followed, Reviewed, and Favoured. it really means a lot.**

 **Disclaimer: I own none of the characters.**

* * *

 _Praise bounteous / providence if you will / that grants even an ogre / a tiny glow-worm / tenderness encapsulated / in icy caverns of a cruel / heart or else despair / for in the very germ / of that kindred love is / lodged the perpetuity / of evil. - Vultures by Chinua Achebe_

 _Chapter song:_

 _Standing in the Way of the Light by Birdy_

When Clary checked her emails, she was pleased to see an email from Jace with an photo attachment sitting in her inbox. She half-smiled, and was shocked and slightly appalled at herself. Since when did she smile?

She opened up the attachment and frowned at it, making sure to type up the text so it was easy to read as one. She scanned the page.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Nothing incriminating, nothing suspicious, nothing of remote interest to her. It was just a bunch of rambling about the Windscale fire of October 1957. Nothing linked to what the assassins were looking for.

But how were they supposed to form links to that when they had no idea what that was?

She clutched her head, fingers tangling in her hair. She felt frustration brewing within her. This was impossible.

It was like trying to solve a murder case, without knowing who was murdered.

Frowning, she turned back to her computer. She-

A loud knock sounded on the door. She pivoted in her seat to stare at it in astonishment, then checked the time. 8:55. Why would someone knock on _her_ door at this time? Maybe Sebastian's... but _hers_?

"Come in." Se called quietly, swiftly shutting the laptop. The door swung open and Sebastian ducked in. She raised her eyebrows at him and he chuckled at the fact she still couldn't raise one. Most people wouldn't have noticed the flash of surprise that flicked across his face as he took in her natural hair colour, but she was expecting it. The dye had fully worn of a few hours before and it was back to her familiar - albeit slightly darker - shade of scarlet. He didn't comment though; only shutting the door behind him and perching on the edge of her bed.

"What do you want?" She asked bluntly, and borderline rudely. He was her brother; she could be rude to him. Just because he sometimes forgot didn't change it. He quirked a smile at her forthrightness and sighed. She studied him more closely. Though the smile lit up his face, shadows clung to his eyes, his head was bowed, and his hands shook slightly.

"Do you want me to read to you?" He asked, voice tinged with an emotion she couldn't place.

Her lips tightened imperceptibly. She sighed inwardly. She couldn't say no when he was wearing that look. That I-want-only-the-best-for-you, sad, hopeful, pleading look. The one that he always wore when addressing her.

She nodded and he beamed. She crawled into the bed, with her brother lying beside her, and reached over him to pick up her chosen book. When she handed it to him he smiled again. " _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland?_ "

"Yes." She replied stubbornly, just as she always would. He laughed slightly, then turned to the page she had marked. When he read, his voice naturally dropped into a soft, melodic tone.

" _'Curioser and curioser!' cried Alice (she was so much surprised, that for the moment she quite forgot how to speak good English). 'Now I'm opening out like the largest telescope that ever was! Goodbye, feet!' (for when she looked down at her feet, they seemed to be almost out of sight, they were getting so far off). 'Oh, my poor little feet, I wonder who will put on your shoes and stockings for you now, dears?'_ "

Clary giggled, as she always did, at Jonathan's high-pitched Alice voice. She had never grown out of bedtime stories. In the past five years, in some areas she had had to grow up very fast, but in others, she had never grown up at all.

She stopped listening, lying on her side so she faced Sebastian, with her eyes closed. It caused an ache in her chest to know that he was doing it for himself, to stop his own nightmares, and not her own. He always did this. It soothed his guilt, to know that he was taking care of his fragile little sister, and made him forget the lives he had taken at their father's orders. It stopped the images that haunted his mind.

She wanted to help him. She wanted to take away his pain. But that didn't mean it didn't hurt when she remembered that if it wasn't for his nightmares, he would be too "busy" to see her. He wouldn't care.

She slowed her breathing, until it looked like she was asleep. Sebastian, noticing this, paused in his reading. She heard him softly put the book back on the nightstand and imagined him carefully getting up, trying not to wake her. She felt his cold fingertips caress her cheek as he tucked a lock of her hair gently behind her ear, and heard him whisper "Goodnight, Clare." She smiled to herself at the old - age old - nickname. She imagined him standing up fully, then walking to the door. She imagined him glancing back at her sleeping form and gazing at her fondly, before quietly closing the door as he left.

But even if it happened for real, the image behind her eyelids was wrong. Because it showed a boy with green eyes doing those things.

* * *

About half an hour later, when she deemed the coast clear, Clary rose out of bed and quickly and quietly got changed again. She glanced at herself in the mirror and narrowed her eyes at her red hair. Oh well. She didn't have time to re-dye it and he would have found out the natural colour anyway sooner or later.

Nevertheless, she tied it up in a ponytail before she slipped her feet into her trainers. Then she climbed out of the large bay window, grabbed onto the tree just within reach and shimmied down the trunk until her feet hit solid ground. She started to make her way up the path towards the top of the hill where the large tree stood.

She was only a few metres away when she saw him, his back facing her, standing with his neck craned trying to peer into the leaves above him. For some unknown reason her heart started to beat faster. She waited until she was a few feet behind him, trusting her years spent sneaking around the manor undetected to mask the sound of her footsteps, before saying in a cheerful voice: "What are you looking for?"

He jumped violently, hissing like a scalded cat, then spun around with all the haste in the world to glare at her. His hands clutched where his heart was, and his aureate eyes were wide with shock. She sucked in a breath. Seeing his eyes always reminded her of the first time she had ever seen him, when she had thought that there was no way it was possible a person had eyes that colour. As gold as the fires of Heaven and Hell. It brought her back to when her innocence and naivety wasn't faked, and where she was still trusting enough to give a complete stranger her apple and make friends with them.

He hadn't stopped glaring at her. it was strange, she mused, about how his eyes always seemed to hold two emotions at once. That first time, the overriding feeling had been hopelessness and fear, but a spark of anger had still smouldered. Now, his gaze was faked nonchalance, though behind it was an intensity so focused that the sheer amount made her quake. But she held her chin high, faking confidence as she had all the other meetings. She had to act confident or he wouldn't take her seriously. It seemed she was always acting.

Sometimes she wondered how she would act if she had the choice.

She returned to reality to see Jace's glare had softened into a stare. She cocked her head, a plastic smirk tugging at her lips. "What?"

Jace shook his head. "Your hair," he said. "It's red." He reached out to rub a lock of it and she hastily stepped back, making him drop it, as she tried to ignore her leaping pulse.

"So?" She asked, re-tying her hair. Her voice came out shaky. She was not keeping up this confident façade very well.

"You had white hair before." He said, and, like his gaze, on the first layer the sentence was casual, a statement of the obvious. But there was an undercurrent of accusation to it.

"I did. This is my natural hair colour." Silently, she cursed herself for giving away more information than was explicitly asked for. Jace didn't seem to notice though.

"You didn't mention that."

"Does it matter?"

Jace's gaze darkened, as though he just realised what he'd been saying for the past few minutes. He shook his head, changing the subject. "No tree climbing today?" He asked instead, he voice light but annoyed. She hid a smile, then let it go.

"I will do what you don't expect." His face contorted into a scowl. Clearly, he hated her evasive answers. "How is your little brother?"

His features instantly softened. "Stable, but showing no signs of waking up." She nodded absently. "What did you make of the photo I sent you?"

All the earlier frustration reappeared. "It makes _no sense_. It's just a bunch of rambling about a fire in the west of Britain. Even after I typed it out rather than relying on the photo, I couldn't find any connection between that page and the murders." She groaned, tugging at chunks of her hair. She caught Jace's amused glance and snapped "Is there something funny?"

He grinned. "There is. You getting agitated is funny. It's actually quite cute." She gave him a glare to rival his earlier one.

"Then I'll email you the typed-out version and see what you make of it." He seemed unfazed by the prospect of a challenge.

"Game on." he said, smirking. Unlike Clary's, his smirk didn't seem faked. "Tell you what, we'll even bet on it. If you find something enlightening from this text - and only this text - before I do, I have to-"

"Drop the confident façade." Clary finished. Jace raised an eyebrow at her, but she saw the flicker of unease as it splashed through his eyes. So it _was_ a façade. "If you 'win', you have to drop the confident façade, at least when you're around me. If you win-" She looked at Jace to state his request.

He grinned even wider. "You have to unbend a little and allow us to become friends." Her startled look was apparently extreme, because he laughed a little. He held his hand out. "Deal?"

She shook it warily. "Deal. " He smirked.

"I'll win."

Clary gasped, her competitive side roaring out of her. "No way in Hell."

"We're not in Hell." He pointed out cheerfully. She scowled.

"Speak for yourself." She froze instantly, swearing profusely in her head at the sudden revelation. He had clearly noticed it - his eyebrows were raised and his mouth half-smiling - but he didn't pursue it.

She regained her composure, reasserting her smirk. "Let's see what's behind the walls."

As she turned to leave, his fingers wrapped round her wrist, stopping her. "Your walls or mine?" He asked softly, tilting his head so honey-coloured hair fell in his eyes. She narrowed her eyes at him and he laughed softly. "Though I must say, you're the first person to notice I even _have_ walls." His teasing look vanished, replaced by a solemn one. The respect in his eyes wasn't given grudgingly. "You're very perceptive, Adele Fray."

At the sound of her alias, she jerked her hand back as though he'd burned her. She muttered a quick goodbye, before turning and striding away before he could process what had happened. She felt the tears in her eyes threaten to spill.

It turned out, she hated being called Adele Fray just as much as she hated being called Clarissa. What was wrong with Clary?

She glanced back to see that Jace had already disappeared from the meeting point. Through the blurry tears, she thought she saw a pale face watching her. But once she had blinked them away the only face she could see was the face of the man in the moon.

* * *

 **I hope you liked Clary's PoV on one of their meetings.**

 **As for the sibling scene at the beginning, I'll be doing some of those throughout. You'll find out why later.**

 **Who do you think will win the challenge? Why do you think Clary hates being called anything but Clary? Have your theories changed?**

 **Review!**


	12. Too Much Pressure

**Sorry for the longer than usual wait. Happy Good Friday!**

 **Thank you to everyone who Reviewed, Favoured and Followed. WE HIT 100 REVIEWS!**

 **Note: I went back and changed slightly the story about why and how Clary changed her hair colour. You may want to reread that part.**

 **Last thing: this story is set in Britain. Just to avoid confusion.**

 **Disclaimer: I own none of the characters.**

* * *

 _Chapter song:_

 _Under Pressure by Queen_

What had he gotten himself into.

Adele was right: there was _nothing_ suspicious on this page. Now, thanks to his competitive spirit, his pride and dignity was on the line. Not to mention his emotions.

If he let his walls down around her, she would see right through him. She would see the hurt and scared little boy he pretended not to be.

He couldn't let that happen. Then she would have some sort of power over him, and he always preferred to hold all the cards.

So he turned feverishly back to document he had printed off, armed with a purple biro and a neon highlighter, and slashed his gaze across the page with a new ferocity. The passage had started on the previous page, and had ended on the next page, so it was incomplete and he had to guess at what it was talking about.

 _-was the worst nuclear accident in the history of the United Kingdom and ranked 5/7 points on the International Nuclear Event scale. The fire broke out in the two-pile Windscale facility in North-West Britain, in Unit 1 on 10 October 1957. It had been built as part of a British bomb project. The area where they operated is now a residential area: Sellafield, Cumbria._

 _For three days the fire burned, causing the release of radioactive contamination into Britain and Europe. Of most concern was the isotope iodine-131, a chemical that was a significant contributor to the health hazards found during and after the more well known_ Chernobyl Event _. It is a notorious cause of thyroid cancer and is thought to be responsible for the extra two hundred and forty cancer cases diagnosed in the following year. No residential areas nearby were evacuated, though all the milk farmed in the surrounding 500km of land was diluted and destroyed for fear of contamination. In 2010 a study of surviving workers found no permanent effects-_

The text ended there, the rest of the page being taken up by a map of Britain highlighting where Cumbria was, with a tiny dot meant to represent the location of where the fire occurred. Jace surveyed the page with disdain. He had highlighted most of the words on the paper, but didn't have a clue how he was supposed to annotate it when he had no idea what it was talking about.

Idly, he picked up the pen and drew a wobbly line under a random few words. _T_ _he iodine-131._ He frowned at it.

Standing, up he carried the extract down the corridor to where Isabelle sat in front of her vanity table, scowling in the mirror. She was facing away from the door but when she saw him reflected she softened her features and turned around.

"What brings you to my humble abode?" She asked, raising an eyebrow. Admittedly, it was a rare occurrence.

He perched stiffly on the edge of her bed, waving the sheet of paper like a white flag. "What is 'iodine-131'?"

She smirked, though it looked forced. "You've forgotten, haven't you?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Maybe."

She snorted. "'Most valuable Clave member.' Like Hell." She muttered. She looked at him with a look mixing irritation and disdain. "Couldn't you ask Alec?"

Jace waved a dismissive hand. "He's out." Isabelle's eyes lit up.

"With his _boyfriend_." She enunciated the word, obviously ecstatic at her brothers acceptance.

Jace cleared his throat. "So... what is 'iodine-131'?"

* * *

Isabelle had known Simon for only a few years; Maia had known him since they were toddlers. Maybe that was the problem.

Though she couldn't help but think that if you've known someone for as long as you can remember, your feelings towards them would be more like siblings, rather than lovers.

One could only dream.

She hadn't even met Simon first. Maia was visiting the Institute one day whilst her dad thought she was at a friend's. The teenager had been lost and Isabelle, seeing another girl her age to talk to, offered to show her the way to the main office. Along the route they began talking and realised they had a lot in common. They parted with smiles, exchanged phone numbers, and promises to meet up again.

Just at the point where they were starting to think of each other as 'best friends', Maia introduced her to Simon. At first she thought he was sort of cute, the way he blushed when he shook her hand, and moved to push his thin-rimmed spectacles to the bridge of his nose. She smiled cautiously. Maia had told her beforehand that he knew nothing about the Clave or the Circle, and that they should keep it that way. At first they were stiff and awkward around each other, then he relaxed and he and Maia started discussing things that were beyond Isabelle's grasp, and she began to feel quite out of place. But he made an effort to include her in the conversation, which she'd thought was sweet.

When she got home she scolded herself. Isabelle Lightwood did not get dumb crushes.

But she couldn't help it.

At the next meeting, Maia and Simon had shared the story of their old friend Clary, and how one day they had gone round to meet her and been greeted by her father rudely shoving them out the door. Whilst they were walking down the pathway, they said, they had heard screams and shouts of presumably Clary fighting with her father. But he didn't bend and they never saw her again. Isabelle had sympathised with them and had felt the tell-tale flutter of butterflies in her stomach when Simon gave her a grateful smile.

Now, two years later, he had taken her heart, unbeknownst to him, and carelessly thrown it aside like a piece of litter on the pavement. He was dating Maia.

Come to think of it, maybe she should have seen it coming. Maia's visits to the Institute lately had become less and less frequently. In fact, Isabelle didn't think she'd seen her there in over eight months. All of their meetings had been outside of the building.

She was probably spending that time with Simon.

Suddenly, no doubt due to her pride and other pointless things, Isabelle came to a resolution. _No_. She would be happy for Maia. God knew that if anyone deserved him, it was her. She would be happy for her friend.

But sad for herself.

* * *

Jace looked up at the looming building of the Institute. It felt odd, returning to his old sanctuary when he had changed so much since he was last here.

He wondered briefly if that was how everyone else felt.

He stepped through the door. When he had first entered, the grandness of the door had cast him into awe, but now the novelty had faded. He ducked into a side passage he knew of and jogged until he reached the library.

It hadn't changed. Still with a soaring ceiling, computers lining the elliptical walls, and a long table stretching down the centre. Only about half the computers were being worked on, so Jace sat in front of the nearest one, logged in, then started to open what he needed.

* * *

As he was walking out, he ran into the last person he would want to run into.

Malachi Dieudonne.

He was walking, deep in conversation, with Inquisitor Aldertree. The Inquisitor was the second-in-command, ranking below only the Consul (Malachi). Aldertree had risen to the position after Jace's grandmother, Imogen Herondale, had passed away. She had died of heartbreak a few weeks after her son, daughter-in-law, and grandson went missing.

As soon as Malachi saw the person walking past him, he scowled fiercely at Jace. Aldertree paused in the middle of his speech to scrutinise Jace alongside him, though he clearly had no idea why. Malachi muttered something to Aldertree, who continued walking as the Consul paused.

"Listen, Jonathan." He said in a low, deadly voice. Jace fought back a wince at the sound of his full name. "I don't know what you think you're doing, and, quite frankly, I'm not sure I want to know. I just want make sure that you know what your doing. As much as it pains me to admit, we've made more progress since you received that email than we have in years." Malachi's words were at odds with his harsh, unforgiving tone.

Jace nodded. "I know what I'm doing."

"I don't mean it that way, Jonathan." His voice dropped even lower. "Just because I'm giving your license to continue with this... _madness_ , doesn't mean I trust you to do the right thing. This is the lesser of two evils; me making the best of a bad situation." He paused. "I know your parents and the Lightwoods were... _acquainted_ with the leader of the Circle of Raziel at one point, but _do not make this personal_. You may have your own agenda against Valentine Morgenstern, but people are _dying_. Don't make this about you. Tread carefully."

Jace nodded again. "I will."

Malachi stared at him for a moment, with something heated behind his gaze. Then he walked off without another word.

* * *

 **I rewrote this chapter after I realised it may have been a bit too complicated. What Jace found out is summarised in the next chapter.**

 **Is this better? Please review.**


	13. Twisted Words

**It might help if you go back and read the last chapter for this.**

 **Disclaimer: I own none of the characters**

* * *

 _Chapter song:_

 _Words by Hawk Nelson_

Malachi's words echoed in his head even as he stepped up to the old oak tree where they generally met, taking care - as always - to stay on the opposite side of the tree to the manor, to avoid detection. _Do not make this personal._

Did he feel this was personal? Yes; Max was attacked. But that wasn't his reason for fighting was it? He knew that most of the Clave slept soundly at night, content in the knowledge that they fought to protect the innocents of the world. He, on the other hand, had always known he was fighting for vengeance.

So in a way, hadn't it been personal all along?

When he heard the soft crunch of light footsteps on the grass, he looked up from where he had been frowning at his shoes to see Adele. Her fiery hair looked almost black in the night, but her pale face shone like a star. Remembering their bet, he grinned.

She looked at him flatly. "I presume you found something?"

His smile widened. "What makes you think that?"

She rolled her eyes. "Your smug self-satisfied smirk says it all." It vanished at that.

"You can tell?" She only looked at him like he'd asked a stupid question.

She shook her head, waving her hand dismissively. "We digress. So here's the question flat out: did you, or did you not find anything?"

The smirk reasserted itself. "I did."

Her irritation, which admittedly could have been brought on by his being an ass, gave him the satisfaction of knowing that losing the bet bothered her. She had one hell of a stubborn pride.

Her face was wiped blank a moment later, just as he tried to study it. "What did you find?"

How to explain?

He rubbed the back of his neck, not meeting her eyes lest she see the uncertainty inside them. She didn't interrupt as he explained. "I checked the Clave records and compared it to the page. At first there was no link, no way in which the information could be useful during the investigation, then..." He tapped his fingers against his thigh. "I tracked the origins of the people who were killed. All of them had recent ancestors who came from the place mentioned on the page, or near it, around the time of the 1950's."

He would have explained why that was notable, but her face told him she remembered what had been written on the page. "I'd dismiss that as a coincidence," she murmured, face crinkled in thought, "but your face tells me there's more."

Jace nodded. It got a bit more gruesome from then on.

"Well we both get that the victims' ancestors were present, or within the affected area, of the Windscale fire." Her slight head movement confirmed it. "And then when I researched some of the effects," in essence, asked Isabelle. "I found one of the major ones was where one of the chemicals in the radiation did _something_ that messed with your thyroids. Lots of people were diagnosed with thyroid cancer."

"Your thyroids are glands that control lots of movement and functions in your body." Adele muttered.

"Yes." How come she and Isabelle knew about this stuff yet he didn't? "They're located in your neck." When she looked blank he added. "On either side of your throat."

When she still didn't catch on, he allowed the corners of his mouth tug upwards slightly, pleased he had made this connection much faster than her.

"What's the Circle's signature way of killing?"

She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the tone to his voice, like he was spelling it out for a child, but then her brows cleared. "They slit the throat-"

"Directly over the thyroid." He finished. She narrowed her eyes at him.

"So what does this mean?" She asked.

He shrugged. "No idea."

She glared. "So that's it?" At his blank expression she continued. "No theories? Just coincidences?!"

"Baby steps." Jace chastised jokingly, more to bring his own spirits up than Adele's. This business was turning out to be unusually sombre.

Though he didn't know what he expected from a business involving assassins.

She scowled, and, again, he was struck by a thought about how cute she looked doing it.

A sudden thought hit him and he raised an eyebrow. Adele's scowl deepened fiercely. "So, I believe I just won our little bet."

For a moment, her scowl became so deep he thought it would carve permanent lines into her pretty face. Then it flitted away, replace by something akin to mischief. Whatever it was, it didn't bode well.

She spoke carefully. "If it's so 'little', does it matter?" He looked at her bluntly. She met it with a sweet smile that faintly terrified him. "Besides, you didn't actually find anything definite. You didn't win."

He cocked his head, rising to the unspoken challenge. "On the contrary, the exact words of the bet were ' _something enlightening_ '. The information I acquired fulfils those requirements." He drawled. She couldn't poke holes in that argument.

But, apparently, she didn't need to. "I don't disagree." She said, green eyes sparking and making him want to dive out of the line of fire. Her tone was mocking. "But, again, the _exact words of the bet_ were 'something enlightening from this text - _and only this text_. You used the Clave records."

He looked on, flabbergasted, outraged, and ever so slightly intimidated by her. "You twisted my words!"

" _''Tis your words that are twisted, not mine',_ " Her tone made it clear she was quoting something. Her eyes flashed. "You don't win."

He just looked on with narrowed eyes as she drew breath. "You don't win," she repeated. "But I'll humour you."

And when she smiled a genuine smile, Jace answered with a genuine smile of his own. Then another thought hit him.

This was probably the sort of personal Malachi had meant.

In which case he was dead.

* * *

Alec's phone hadn't stopped beeping since he set foot outside of his front door. Isabelle was more excited about this than he had ever expected.

Although he didn't know what he was expecting. Isabelle had long since given up on messing with Jace's love life, and Max - his throat tightened briefly - was too young to have one, so that just left him. Of course she would be excited when he decided to take the first few steps towards being public about his relationship with Magnus.

Alec had known and accepted he was gay a few months before he met Magnus. He hadn't told his siblings yet, but he had a feeling they'd - at least Isabelle had - guessed by that point.

And then one day he'd been waiting for the bus when a man who seemed to leave a trail of glitter came and sat down next to him. Alec had sneezed - from all the glitter of course - causing the man to send a curious glance in his direction. In the next five minutes, Alec had quickly become uncomfortable by the intense stares the man sent his way and as if sensing this, the man had said frankly "I find you attractive."

Alec had turned to gaze in shock and slight relief at the man, who introduced himself as Magnus. They had started talking, and slowly gotten closer and closer as the weeks went by and they met up.

The rest was history.

They had been subtle about it at first, Alec's parents not knowing about him, and had only gone out to places where they were sure they wouldn't run into anyone they knew. Alec knew that Magnus didn't care, that he was only doing it for Alec's sake, and eventually Alec said enough was enough.

They had decided to go to a restaurant both of them knew and liked and damn the consequences.

He hadn't quite thought about how Isabelle would react to the news. At this rate, she would blow up his phone. He turned it off.

Magnus smiled wryly. "Izzy seems excited."

"I think she's more excited than we are." That startled a laugh out of his boyfriend, which made Alec grin in return.

They talked about anything and everything, until a phone pinged. Alec frowned - he had turned his off, hadn't he? - until he realised it was Magnus's.

His boyfriend was staring at the screen, frowning. "I need to go."

Alec only nodded. This had happened before. It happened quite often, actually.

He hadn't told Magnus about the Clave; it would be breaking a vital rule unless he needed to know. He hadn't thought much about keeping secrets.

But as he watched Magnus walk out the door, he realised he hadn't given a thought to whether Magnus was keeping secrets on a need-to-know basis as well.

* * *

 **What do you think Magnus is involved in? What did you think of Clary and Jace's interaction? Please tell me your thoughts.**

 **Review!**


	14. In For A Penny, In For A Pound

**Please ignore any grammar or spelling mistakes. I'm typing this out on an iPad and spellcheck can be weird.**

 **Disclaimer: I own none of the characters.**

* * *

 _Chapter song:_

 _Arms by Christina Perri_

"What do you mean by saying you'll "humour me"?" Jace asked Adele cautiously, making air quotations with his fingers. He eyed her, suspicious.

She offered him a shining smile, loaded with amusement and maybe a glimmer of fondness. "I mean, that despite breaking the terms of the bet-" he winced at that; she made it sound like a crime "-you did find something useful. You didn't win, but you get the prize."

"That makes no sense."

She shrugged. "It's my pride talking. Of course it doesn't make any sense."

Jace considered it briefly. "Is this just a roundabout way of saying you want to be friends with me?"

Her bright green eyes sparkled as her copper eyebrows went up. "Again: it's my pride talking. Who knows what twisted intentions it may have."

He grinned, and after a moment, Adele grinned back.

"That sounds nice." Jace said in response to her original request. "Friends are nice." He continued idly, not sure what to say.

Her eyes flickered, darkening for a swift moment. She flicked them down. "I wouldn't know. I've haven't had a close friend since I was five."

Jace felt that peculiar stirring in his heart. Pity.

Sensing that it wouldn't be well received, he acted like she hadn't said anything as she continued.

"How do you generally make a friend?" She asked, sitting down on the damp grass. He followed suit.

Jace was taken aback, though he should'be seen the question coming. "Well... Sometimes you aske questions to see if you have anything in common."

She nodded, looking to him to start. He suddenly realised how awkward the situation was.

"So," he cleared his throat. "What's your favourite colour?"

He anticipated her amused expression even before he saw it. "It was the best icebreaker I could come up with." He admitted.

"How inventive of you."

"It is, actually."

"No it's not."

"You've never done this before, how do you know?!" He was slightly worried when he realised he'd brought this up, but she remained unfazed.

"Books." She stated simply.

He raised an eyebrow. "Well then, Adele-" Did he imagine the wince? "- if 'what's your favourite colour' is such an _uninventive_ question, how about this: what books do you read?"

She checked them off on her fingers. "A Tale of Two Cities, Great Expectations, Oliver Twist, Far from the Madding Crowd, The Chronicles of Narnia-"

"Anything from _this_ century?"

She smiled slightly, like she was sharing a secret joke. "Like what?"

"I don't know. Harry Potter?"

"The first three books were published in the 1990's."

He waved it away with mock irritation. "Semantics"

She chuckled and he marvelled at how at ease she seemed now. Before she had been tense and shielded but her decision to open up to him appeared to have freed something in her. She responded to his arrogant comments with light teasing, unflinchingly. Although, he did notice the momentary hesitation before she said anything, the slight care given to her answers, and the way she seemed to hold an invisible line that she never crossed.

"But seriously, any others?"

She laughed again, her smile turning her eyes to half moons. "You sound like my brother. He always lectured me about 'reading the books of of the time period' and everything."

Jace froze for a minute, not sure how to respond to that. She seemed to suddenly realise what she'd said, and her laughter quieted, her sunny smile replaced by a solemn look. The edges of her lips drooped like wilting rose petals as the silence became heavy.

"Why do you say 'lectured' in past tense?" Jace asked gently. She didn't answer. "You know you can trust me, don't you?"

She raised her head to look at him, green eyes silvery. "Can I?" She whispered.

He nodded. "I haven't betrayed you so far, have I? You trust me with the information."

She took a shaky breath, then surprised him with a brief, fleeting wry smile. "' _In for a penny, in for a pound_ '." She quoted softly.

Jace nodded again, though he wasn't sure what she was quoting, or what it meant. "So why do you use the past tense?" He believed he already knew the answer.

"Because he's dead." She said simply. Her voice was steady, but her gaze faraway. as she looked away from the manor. Not knowing what else to do, he reached out to lay a heavy hand on her slender, fragile shoulder.

She fixed her gaze on the sliver of waxing moon visible among the stars that glowed like colourless streetlights, but she gave him a small smile. A heartbreakingly vulnerable smile full of grief and pain that had never quite lessened.

Jace had never seen anything so beautiful.

* * *

They sat there for what could have been moments, or could have been hours, in their own personal eternity until Adele stood up and slowly walked towards the house. She didn't say goodbye, but Jace understood the sentiment. It helped that he couldn't believe he hadn't glimpsed the ghost of a smile on her lips as she turned away.

He watched her for a moment. She looked so small against the intimidating backdrop of the manor. Her red hair burned against the electric lights like a guttering flame, but her step didn't falter as she strode towards her home.

How had she ended up in a isolated manor with only the dreary Morgensterns for company? Why had she been introduced to this harsh world full of death so young?

And how had she not yet broken under the horrific things she had to hear about each day?

* * *

Isabelle perched on the damp park bench, half hanging off despite the fact that the three of them could fit on it comfortably with space to spare.

She had been the one to suggest they meet up at the local park that evening, if only to reconcile herself with the notion that her best friend was dating her secret crush. She needed practice in acting nonchalant around em, even when she felt like she was about to cry.

Which was ridiculous. Isabelle Lightwood didn't cry.

Now though, she was reconsidering whether it had been a good idea to arrange it, or at least for her not to leave earlier. At night the park was lit by low-lying lamps that cast bright puddles on the paths, and turned the pond into a bronze mirror. Stars were still visible overheard, at least the ones that could be seen through the combination of clouds and light pollution, and the trees cast long, dark, dramatic shadows that striped the paths in golden and black like a tiger's fur.

It was all _incredibly_ romantic.

Simon and Maia were sitting so close to each other that their thighs brushed, and Simon had an arm draped over Maia's tense shoulders. Isabelle would have been surprised by this - Maia wasn't one who appreciated obvious affection, especially in the form of physical contact - but the loud pounding of her pulse had drowned out most of her thoughts. The air between them seemed to have an absence of oxygen and only by scooting right to the edge of the bench could Isabelle think and breathe clearly.

Simon turned to her, brows furrowed in an adorably confused expression. "You know you don't have to sit right over there, don't you?"

"I know," Isabelle answered shortly, ignoring the stab of guilt that accompanied the two words. She had always loathed snapping at Simon; it was like snapping at an eager-to-please puppy.

He looked faintly hurt, but moved his attention back to Maia soon after. _Like always_ , she thought bitterly. She felt like an awful friend for thinking it, but she wished he cared about her more. Hatred, she could take (possibly). At least he would have strong feelings for her then. But indifference...

She kept on looking ahead, pretending to be entranced by the waterfowl on the pond they sat near. It was like Jace and ducks, she decided. He may hate them with a burning passion, but she could never see a duck without thinking of her adoptive brother. They were inarguably linked in her mind. But she never thought of Alec when she looked at a duck, because he just didn't care about them.

Isabelle turned her head to surreptitiously observe her friends. She wasn't sure what requited love would look like when she saw it, but she had always imagined it would be something you could point out, like a specific light in someone's eye, or at least something that screamed _THESE TWO PEOPLE ARE IN LOVE_. She didn't see anything like that between Simon and Maia. They looked at each other with fondness and caring, but nothing palpable. Nothing that was completely and utterly, undeniably _real_.

Nevertheless, neither of them noticed when she stood up and walked away.

* * *

 **Poor Isabelle.**

 **What did you think of Clary and Jace's conversation? Simon and Maia? Isabelle's observations?**

 **Review?**


	15. When the Wave Breaks

**To answer Alyssa-Jayne's question: soon. Very soon.**

 **Disclaimer: I own none of the characters.**

* * *

 _Chapter songs:_

 _Hey Brother by Avicii_

 _War of Hearts by Ruelle_

Clary's steps thudded against the carpeted floor. For once she barely noticed the abundance of historical artefacts littered around the place. Usually, she would gaze upon them with an obscure mixture of admiration and disgust, loving the care and effort and _experience_ each of them had, but hating the way they'd been procured.

Now she walked past them without sparing them a glance.

An age-old weariness vibrated through her bones. After telling Jace about Jonathan -albeit in the vaguest way possible - she felt emotionally drained. Completely and utterly drained. There had always been an unspoken rule around the manor never to talk about the boy's death or the woman's coma. Clary had always followed because she felt that if she confronted the pain that had been dogging her footsteps, it would tear her apart. But now she had told Jace, it was like an immense pressure that had been building in her chest had dissipated into nothing. And she was so, so tired.

She couldn't even muster up the energy to be surprised when she saw her bedroom door hanging open, or Sebastian sitting on her bed gazing at her with an indecipherable expression.

When he spoke it was what she had been expecting. "Do you want me to read to you?" His voice was more controlled, as opposed to his usual soft tone, which he used like she would shatter from too much noise.

This had happened much more frequently recently, so it was more muscle memory than conscious thought when she nodded wordlessly.

She felt him tense slightly as she slid into the bed next to him, and frowned in confusion, but he swiftly wiped his face blank. He reached over the scattered books stacked messily on her desk, his touch light as he sifted through them. She couldn't help but raise her eyebrows at his choice. _A Tale of Two Cities_.

"I thought you hated that book." She stated, looking at him with slight suspicion.

"I do," he answered, opening it to the first page. "But you like it."

She furrowed her eyebrows. "Are you okay? You're acting weird."

"I'm fine," he tried to wave her worries off in an uncharacteristically tight voice.

"And you're talking weird."

He huffed in exasperation. "I'm absolutely, positively fine, Clary. There's nothing wrong. You're being paranoid."

"You just called me Clary. _Something's_ wrong."

"I've called you Clary before."

" _Willingly_." She attempted to bore holes into his skull with her intense glare.

He sighed and screwed his eyes shut. _A Tale of Two Cities_ lay forgotten on the duvet.

"Close the door, Clary." He instructed. She stood to do so.

She was still facing away when he spoke. It was _not_ what she had been expecting.

"Why have you been meeting with Jonathan Wayland?"

Oh no.

It was good she was facing away, because her face surely betrayed the horror and shock that had coursed through her. After taking a moment to smooth her features, though she was sure he had read what she was thinking through her tense shoulders, she turned around.

Sebastian, her brother, the person who had been there for her when she cried over Jonathan, the only family member she had spoken to in the past few years, was looking at her with enough anger in those dark pits he called eyes to burn down the world.

She swallowed. She said nothing, sure that she would stammer the words until they were incomprehensible. The fury in his gaze hadn't lessened.

"Why, Clarissa?" His voice had changed to sharp and deadly. "Why would you meet with someone outside the manor, under the cover of darkness? Especially someone connected to..." He trailed off, realising what he was about to say. Of course he would think she didn't know about the situation.

She raised her eyebrows, feeling anger to match her brother's roiling in the pit of her stomach. "Connected to the Clave? Is that what you were going to say?" Her voice was cool and measured, but with a slight snap.

It was worth blowing her 'innocent' cover just to see the look on his face.

"What?!" He spluttered. "What do you know about the Clave?" Toward the end his speech recovered the smooth tone he usually had.

Clary studied her fingernails, hoping he didn't notice how they were shaking. She feigned indifference, if only because she knew it would aggravate him further. This argument was years in the making. She felt all the bitter emotions she had locked away reach breaking point, like the crest of a wave, and swamp the once-peaceful sands.

"Certainly more than the Circle of Raziel, a group of assassins employed by our dearest father, which he is training you to lead, does about them." She said articulately. Her eyes flicked up to meet Sebastian's. Whilst before he had been absolutely apoplectic, now he just looked stunned, like he didn't know what to make of his little sister's confession.

"You knew?" He asked eventually. His voice was hoarse. All she could do was nod, averting her gaze.

He swallowed. "But... But Jonathan and I..." His eyes met Clary's. "We swore to keep you out of it. To not let it corrupt you. Mother didn't want it either, and she persuaded Father to not get you involved. It was what Jonathan and I fought for."

"I'm in the same house as this... _thing_ , and you thought you could keep me away from it?" She asked disbelievingly.

"We could try." His gaze was unfocused for a moment, then he snapped into focus. " _What have you done, Clarissa_?"

"Met with Jace Herondale to tell him how to stay alive when working here." She stated it quietly, but she looked her brother dead in the eye.

"You haven't told him anything else?" He asked, surprised.

She eyed him. "I can only find out so much. It's not like the plans for who will be killed next, or why, are just lying around the place."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Your meetings with him last hours. I looked through your emails-"

"That's not creepy at all." She muttered under her breath. He ignored her.

"-and you contact him quite a lot as well. There's no way you spent all that time discussing such a specific subject."

At her lack of answer, he tilted his head. "You wanted a friend." He said suddenly. She felt her cheeks flame as she ferociously shook her head. He took a step towards her. "You did." He whispered. "You haven't spoken to anyone other than family and the guards - don't think I don't know about that - for years. You wanted a friend."

She found that the pity in his gaze was even more unbearable than the anger had been.

"Does he even know your real name, Clary?" He asked, his voice as soft as Jace's had been when he asked her about Jonathan. Apparently, her lack of answer was answer enough.

"What have you done, Clary?" She had a feeling he wasn't referring to the secret spilling, but acted like he was.

"You can't tell me you _condone_ this murder!" She hissed fiercely.

"No, but-"

"But nothing. Why have you gone along with it for years? You almost killed Max Lightwood-"

"Almost?"

"-who is just a _little boy!_ Why haven't you stood up to Valentine yet, if you disagree with him?" He looked dumbstruck and she almost felt bad as she spat "You are a _coward_ , Sebastian Morgenstern. A complete and utter _coward_."

He didn't answer. Instead he marched past her to the door. When he put his hand on the doorknob, her voice rang again with years' worth of bottled up emotions. "And I suppose now you're going to run to Father and tell him what a naughty girl I've been."

He paused, and his expression would have broken her heart if she hadn't been so sure it had frozen into disuse years ago. "I won't do anything like that, Clary. I love you."

She didn't return the sentiment. In the moment that the empty words hovered on the air, she had never felt so keenly the distance between her and her brother, like a rope that had been stretched until it frayed.

And she knew he felt it too.

"I'm sorry it had to come to this, Clary." He whispered, then left the room. The door shut with a decisive click.

She slept like the dead that night, with one last lonely secret rattling around inside her.

* * *

The next morning Isabelle, not having any classes at the Institute that day, slept in for as long as possible before being unceremoniously roused by a loud, persistent, and incredibly annoying banging on the front door.

She rolled out of bed, groaning as her limbs ached. After leaving Simon and Maia free to go on a romantic walk the evening before, she had walked round the lamp lit streets in endless circles, with no real destination in mind. Then she had come across some woods that may have been moments or miles from where she began her wander. On a spur of the moment decision she climbed the tallest tree - a thick, majestic oak, she believed - right to the top, where she finally allowed herself to cry.

Not that she would ever admit it. There were no witnesses unless you counted the squirrels.

But now, with the rush of bitter adrenaline gone, she regretted the decision almost as sorely as her limbs were hurting.

She slipped on her long dressing gown then padded down the carpeted stairs in felt slipper, still only half-awake. She was no less tired when she opened the door, which was not a phenomenal position to be in when facing off against a very determined Maia.

"Maia," she said, slight irritated and still yearning to go back to sleep. "You're very early. Come back later."

Her friend only looked at her disbelievingly. "It's ten in the morning."

"So?" Isabelle didn't know what time she'd gotten home the previous night. Two o'clock, maybe three?

Maia only huffed, shaking her head, then pushed past her into the hallway. Isabelle muttered something less than complimentary before joining her in the living room. Maia was peering through the thin film of dust on the photos on the mantelpiece. Isabelle sighed, smiling slightly. Her friend had always been forward.

Sometimes a bit _too_ forward, Isabelle couldn't help but think as Maia whirled around to look Isabelle in the air and stated bluntly: "You're not acting yourself lately."

The tall girl didn't react other than to gracefully sit down on the sofa, stretching out her lithe body like a cat. "People change. Maybe I'm changing, Maia."

Her friend did not look impressed. Isabelle didn't actually think it possible someone's eyebrow could rise that high. "Isabelle," she said calmly, though her voice was slightly heated and rushed. "Cut the crap and start talking."

She did a double take; Maia rarely swore. She bit her lip, running her hand through her inky black hair. "I'm fine, Maia. I'm just having an off week."

"More like a month," Maia scoffed. "You've been acting like this ever since-" Her breath caught, as though she had heard Isabelle's suddenly hammering pulse. "Ever since I told you I was going out with Simon." She finished softly, eyes wide.

Isabelle gulped.

But Maia, who _never_ ceased to surprise her, appeared to have her eyes wide with wonder rather anger, and she scrambled from where she was still standing to perch on the cream-coloured sofa next to Isabelle.

"You like him." She said matter-of-factly, her face barely restraining from splitting in half from an absurdly wide grin. Isabelle shook her head, a condescending smile twisting her lips despite the panic roaring inside her. Was she that obvious?

Maia continued, seemingly oblivious to Isabelle's agitation. "And here I was thinking his plan a stupid one. He seems to have more brains when it comes to relationships than we give him credit for."

Isabelle had been wrong-footed so many times in the past ten minutes that she was no longer sure where the ground was. "Wh-what?" She spluttered.

Maia's beaming smile dropped, replacing by a look so deadly serious Isabelle was almost scared. She spoke slowly, as though to ensure Isabelle wouldn't miss what she was saying. "Simon was trying to make you jealous."

Isabelle could only stand there gaping, whilst Maia smirked. "Why would he do that?"

Maia's thrilled expression vanished as she rolled her eyes. "He likes you." She was saying it so simply, so plainly. Couldn't she see how much those words meant to her? "He wanted to see if you liked him back." She cocked her head. "Which you obviously do," she continued, unfazed by the daggers Isabelle was staring at her.

"He couldn't have just _told_ me?!" She asked, feeling a rush of anger through every pore in her skin. Maia's brows knitted together but Isabelle went on heedless. "I've been crushing on him for _months_ and whilst we risk our lives everyday, he didn't have the courage to say a few words? Just because of his cowardice, he had to drag my feelings through a thorn bush?!" She whirled on the girl she had always considered a best friend. "And you _let him_?"

Maia blanched. "Izzy-"

" _G_ _et out_." She hissed. The fire in her voice had been replaced by pure, fatal venom. " _Get out_."

Maia obliged, but not before she said "You never would have acted on your own, Izzy" in a very soft voice. Then she walked out, letting the door swing shut behind her with a thump.

What Isabelle Lightwood appeared to be, and what she actually was, were two different things. People thought of her as reckless, when she could be very cautious. People saw her as strong, when she could be almost shamefully vulnerable. People seemed to think she was indifferent, when she was crying out in agony on the inside.

But when Isabelle Lightwood was angry, she never hid it. She made sure people damn well knew it.

So when her phone rang, and she checked the called ID to see that it was Simon, she declined the call.

* * *

Jace had hardly slept the night before, after his meeting with Adele. He kept going over what had happened in his head, wondering if he had done the right thing. All he had done was put his hand on her shoulder as he tried to calm her down, when he was the one who had made her lose her calm to begin with. Was that the right thing to do?

He had been distracted most of the day, so much to the point that even Alec had asked if something was wrong. _Alec_. He generally had his head in the clouds, to sullen and occupied to spare a passing thought to noticing other people's problems, unless they were explicitly explained to him. If Jace was so distant that even he had noticed, then that was surprising.

But he couldn't help it. He'd been trying to work out to weird feeling he'd got the night before. It was like- he didn't even known what it was like. He'd never felt it before. He didn't even know if it was good or bad, or whether he liked or disliked it.

Now the evening had come and he was making the trek back to the manor and _he still couldn't figure it out_. It was driving him mental. It had gotten to the point where he'd even asked Isabelle, but all she did was look at him with an infuriating grin. "Work it out yourself, Jace," she'd told him. "That gives it half the meaning."

Sometimes he really hated his sister.

He smiled at Adele as he mounted the crest of the hill and recognised her scarlet hair - more of a wine colour under the new moon - as she sat cross-legged under the tree. She smiled shyly back.

He frowned internally. She hadn't been shy during their other meetings. She'd been perfectly confident. Why was she suddenly different? This girl was as confusing as the feeling she gave him.

He sat down next to her, and for a moment they were silent, looking into the empty hollow where the moon usually was.

"Um..." Jace said, more to break the ever so slightly awkward silence than because he actually had something planned out to say. "Did you progress at all with the assassins?"

She shook her head. "No." She said softly, her gaze never leaving the stars. "You?"

"No." He replied in a voice so quiet it was barely a breath. For some reason, their lack of progress didn't bother him.

Maybe because they'd progressed in other directions.

"I'm sorry." Adele said abruptly in the ensuing silence. He was so grateful that she found something to talk about, that he instantly forgave her for whatever she was sorry for.

"For last night." She added, seeing his vaguely confused expression. "Sorry I started blubbering and ran off. I'm not used to talking about him." She said wistfully.

He smiled gently, picking at the grass under his shoes. "What was his name?"

"Jonathan," she said in a gasp, like it was hard to get out. She looked down sheepishly. "Sorry, I-"

"You've nothing to be ashamed of." He said firmly. Her clear eyes flicked up to meet his. "I still find it difficult to say- Max." He choked on the familiar yet seemingly unfamiliar name. "And he's not even dead."

Jace half expected his companion to point out that Max also wasn't his blood brother, but she didn't. He was grateful for that too.

They were stuck in an even louder silence than the one before, when Jace felt Adele's hand on his shoulder. He chuckled, recognising the awkwardness in the grip as the same that had been in his hand on her shoulder the night before. Neither of them knew what to do when it came to this comforting business. He expected to have to explain his laughter, but she seemed to get it and grinned along with him as she lowered her hand.

He stopped laughing for a moment and studied her face. In the lack of moonlight her skin just seemed to glow brighter, her freckles tiny sunspots against a star. He thought back to the word he had used to mentally describe her the previous night. _Beautiful_.

He had never called a girl beautiful. Maybe pretty, or stunning, or practically flawless (Isabelle being the latter; she was wearing wicked sharp hair pins and had implicitly threatened to stab him if he didn't say something nice) - but never beautiful. Looking at her face intently, he noticed that it was far from flawless. One eyebrow was higher than the other, and her the swoop of her eyelids varied between them. She also had slightly hollow cheeks, yet seemingly still had some final scraps of baby fat.

She was far from flawless. But that only seemed to make her more beautiful.

She looked up and caught him staring. An apple blush clouded her cheeks. "What?" She asked.

He answered as honestly as he could. "You're beautiful." The blush deepened.

He watched her with fascination. He still didn't know what this bizarre feeling was, but he knew to trust his instincts. Especially in this scenario, since what his instincts were telling him to do, and what he wanted to do were the same. So he did it.

He kissed her.

For a second she went rigid and he was worried she wouldn't take kindly to his rash actions. Then she started to kiss him back and he relaxed. They separated, touching foreheads, for a moment. Their gazes locked, green vibrating against gold. His hand came up to cup her cheek as her fingers tangled together behind his neck. His eyes flickered over her face, drinking in the sight of her. "Beautiful." He said again. "You are beautiful, Adele Fray."

All he processed was her minute stiffening before she ripped herself away from him. He staggered for a brief moment, then he blinked. When he regained his senses, she had disappeared, leaving him alone in the cold, dark night.

* * *

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	16. Not About Angels

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters.**

* * *

 _Chapter songs:_

 _Not About Angels by Birdy_

Clary had never hated the angels so much.

Oh, they were laughing at her now. The cruel twisters of fate, twisting hers even more cruelly, with a vicious sense of humour she couldn't fail to miss.

Especially since he looked like one of them. His golden curls and perfectly carved face made him look like some sort of arrogant Cupid, piercing girls' hearts with little to no effort. And, like the angels, he was always in control. He was everything she wasn't.

When she was younger, Clary had loved the idea of having a guardian angel. Not so much when she and Sebastian were still speaking, but after those times she needed one more than ever. Someone to stick by her through everything, to shield her from the pain and burn away the darkness. During the times where the shadows practically choked her, she had prayed to have one even harder.

When she had seen the little boy in the paddock she was never allowed to enter, at first his appearance had made her think that maybe he could be that angel. But then she got closer and saw the raw, undeniably human pain in his eyes, and she knew that he was no angel, and if he had ever been one, he was now fallen.

Now, years later, fate had mocked her and had her fall for the one person she shouldn't. She was in no fit state to fix him, and he was in no fit state to fix her.

He was beautiful, but that was what made him deadly. Beautiful like the sun's rays passing through a clear window. But he was breakable.

She knew he was broken. It just made him all the more stunning.

He was like broken glass, eye-catching as it reflected light and rainbows, but still broken, sharp enough to make you bleed. Children were told not to play with broken glass for a reason.

In this playing field, she was still a child.

When she had been walking back through the manor the previous night, she'd jumped half a foot in the air to see Sebastian waiting for her again, though she wasn't sure why she was surprised. He'd taken one look at her expression and whispered, "You're heart's become too invested in this, Clary. This will all come tumbling down, and you with it." She only dully registered that he hadn't called her Clarissa since their argument.

She'd watched him walk away, feeling so much at once that she barely felt anything at all.

Now, the next morning, she downstairs to the kitchen, where she always ate breakfast, and was surprised to see him there. He was almost always too busy to see her in the mornings. She ignored him, acting like there was nothing out of the ordinary going on, as she opened the cupboards to take out cereal and a bowl. Once she'd set up the meal, she slipped into her chair and started eating, still ignoring him. He spoke first.

"Don't trust the Clave." He said suddenly. She jerked her head up, letting the spoon splash into the milk. She widened her eyes in shock at her brother's audacity to say it so freely.

He caught onto what was bothering her; since she'd opened up to him, he seemed able to be able to read her like an open book. But he did nothing and simply continued. "Father has spies in high places in the Clave. If you keep feeding information to them, he will find out. I'm pretty sure they're just puppets for him to command."

She just gaped at him. "What?"

"At least, some of the older, more influential ones are loyal to him, provided he keeps paying them. You asked what was happening now that was going wrong: some of the newer ones, who aren't being paid to mislead their colleagues, were showing potential to taking over the operation. Now, though, it's calmed down after they were shown to be," he paused, picking his words carefully. "Wilful and hot-headed."

She got the hint. "Jace and his recklessness in meeting with me."

He smiled ruefully. "By trying to help them, you actually helped the Circle gain greater control. Great job, little sister."

She grimaced. "They never would have gotten that far, even when free of manipulation."

"True." Then, with barely a nod to her, he walked away as though they'd just had the most casual of conversations, leaving her staring after him.

Clary had been expecting Sebastian to tell Valentine about what she'd done - _was doing_ \- last night. But evidently, he hadn't. He even seemed more at ease, his steps lighter, his face relaxed, he was even whistling a little tune.

The only thing she could do what wonder what the hell had gotten into her brother.

* * *

 _Stupid_.

This was all Jace had been able to think, even as he sat in the uncomfortable chair in Malachi's office, whilst the man lectured him about something important enough to warrant a message flagged IMPORTANT. He should probably be listening right now.

"...you agree, Jonathan?" Malachi finished, looking at him over his Roman nose, gaze inquiring. Jace swallowed.

"I'm sorry?" He asked tentatively. He didn't have a clue what he had said.

Malachi's eyes gleamed with a strange light. "You haven't heard a word I said, have you?"

Casting his gaze down, pretending to look ashamed, Jace shook his head no. Malachi raised a thick eyebrow. "I said, that your well of information seems to have run out, other than far-fetched theories with nothing concrete." He wasn't wrong. Jace hadn't exactly been gathering vital details on the murders recently. He'd been too busy with other things.

"It appears to have, _sir."_ The word tasted dry on his tongue.

"I hope it's not because you're making this personal?" Malachi's fingers had started tapping on the desk. Jace found it easier to look at them than to meet Malachi's gaze as it roved over his tense posture like a wolf devouring a sheep.

"No." Jace didn't bother adding the polite _sir_. Malachi had made it clear that lack of respect would not be tolerated, but Jace couldn't really care much less.

Malachi raised his eyebrow, and Jace had the feeling his boss knew it was a lie. Maybe he even knew just how bloated the lie was.

"Well then," the older man said, folding his hands together, "I've discussed this with Aldertree, and we agreed that to really make a statement to Valentine and the rest of the Circle, we have to hit him where it hurts. We're acting on what you discovered early on."

"Which is?"

Malachi smirked, but after his words, Jace didn't see anything funny about the suggestion. "You are going to kidnap Clarissa Morgenstern."

Jace took a moment to process the words, then the utter seriousness about them,

Alec's words from their argument - it seemed so long ago - when he was originally told to continue working at the manor. His brother had even been able to guess back then that they would try to kidnap any relations of Valentine. He had known the lengths the Clave was willing to go to.

And he had disagreed with them.

A screeching came from the chair legs on the floor as Jace stood up harshly. "That's cruel and unnecessary." He spat. "It's _wrong_."

"Do you claim to speak for the angels, Jonathan?" Malachi would completely calm and unfazed. "This is a war. Sacrifices must be made. If that includes the teenage daughter of a psychopath, then so be it."

"You say that like she gets to choose who her father is."

Malachi stood up so they were eye to eye. "She didn't choose that. But she could have made a difference in the world. She could have stopped Valentine's plans, but she didn't. She chose not to."

"She doesn't know anythi-"

"No one can be ignorant of an evil in their own home. She knows enough to make a huge difference, but again, she chose not to."

Jace wasn't convinced. "This is still fundamentally wrong."

Malachi sneered as he reclaimed his seat. He jotted something down on paper, seemingly unaware of Jace's scorching glare burning into the back of his head. " _You_ don't have a choice. You work for the Clave. You are a soldier. You need to learn to unquestionably follow orders."

"You speak like you are God."

Malachi glanced up at Jace, eyes dark with twisted triumph. "In this situation, I might as well be."

* * *

How on Earth was Jace going to persuade Adele to agree to this?

It was an impossible task. Especially since she would be already ill-disposed towards him after-

Nope. Not thinking about that.

He had told Maryse about the order he had been given, and she'd been just as horrified as he was. "Clarissa was a sweet girl." She'd murmured. "She doesn't deserve this."

He agreed. But when she'd asked him if he would go through with it, he hadn't responded.

Now he swallowed desperately. His mouth was dry. He wasn't sure if his nerves came from meeting with Adele after their last... rendezvous, or because of the news he had to deliver. For all he knew, Clarissa Morgenstern could be her friend.

There was no one in sight when he first reached the tree, and in a panicked moment he wondered if she hadn't shown up, if he'd driven her away. Then he spied the movement of her head as she walked up the hill and breathed a sigh of relief, although it still couldn't get past the knot in his stomach.

The expression she wore whilst she surveyed him was just as guarded as the expression she'd worn upon first meeting him. He couldn't deny the pang in his chest. He'd come so far with her, only to be dumped at the start again.

"This is important." He said flat out. He could practically see the words appear in her eyes but he cut her off before she could say anything. "It's not about last time. I don't want to talk about it, and your expression says that you don't, either. That's for another time."

She nodded. "Another time." She swallowed after she repeated what he'd said. He had to tear his eyes away from the way her throat bobbed. "What is it?" Her indifferent mask was gone, replaced by the intently focused look he was so familiar with. He knew instinctually that her previous thoughts had been pushed to the side to clear space for whatever new ones would blossom. He had to admire her single-mindedness.

He took a deep breath; his lungs were suddenly empty. He squeezed his eyes out. It came out in an almost undistinguishable rush. "The Clave wants you to help kidnap Clarissa Morgenstern."

She took a sharp gasp. As he cracked his right eye open, he saw she had gone deathly white. "What?" She stuttered, but he knew she'd heard.

"Don't make me say that again." His voice, to his surprise, didn't come out pained, but laced with deadly anger. He hoped she knew it wasn't directed at her.

"I-I can't." She stammered, running a hand through her hair. Her voice regained it's strength. " _I won't_."

Jace _really_ didn't want to do this, but he was duty bound to at least _try_ to change her mind. He would prod her a bit then give up. "Come one." He coaxed, trying not the flinch at the terrifying glare she sent him. "It's not like she doesn't deserve this."

Her face contorted. "You speak like you know her." Her words were sharp barks.

"I know that she had a chance to help the victims, maybe even warn the Clave about Valentine's plans, but she didn't. She chose her father's side."

Adele laughed. It was humourless, and cruel, and mocking. He didn't know what had happened to her. Sure, it was wrong, but... this? Tears rolled down her cheeks. The suppressed fire he'd always sensed around her had bloomed into an uncontrolled inferno as her eyes flashed different shades of green with every emotion whirling in them.

"She wont be abused or harmed-" He broke off.

"I can't help you." She snapped, voice rising and falling with harsh laughter.

"Well, why not?" He replied, just as harshly. She didn't get to confuse him like this; no one did. How could she?

" _Because I am Clarissa Morgenstern!_ "

He felt his eyes widen as though his body was on autopilot. He saw something leave her face; some tension he hadn't realised was there until it was gone.

He took a step back. "What?"

"You heard me." She smiled bitterly, but it was bitterness at the world. Not him. "I. Am. Clarissa. Morgenstern."

 _"She could have made a difference in the world. She could have stopped Valentine's plans, but she didn't. She chose not to."_

Malachi and his high-and-mighty ways had been wrong. At any other time he would have laughed.

But he couldn't even begin to fathom what he was feeling right now. Shock, anger, astonishment. Naturally. But also hurt and betrayal. She had lied. They had become close, and still she'd lied. He was beginning to understand why she'd run the previous night.

Apparently, they'd become close enough for her to guess what he was thinking. "Would you have trusted me if I'd given you my real name?"

She had a point. But still...

"You lied." He choked.

She shook her head. "Adele's my middle name, and Fray was my old friend's nickname for me."

"The one you last saw at five years old."

She nodded, face earnest. "Yes. I only lied about my real name."

His breath left him all at once. He didn't know why that helped, yet it did. But... "You're hiding something."

She sat down on the grass. Her eyes sparkled up at him in the way he loved. One corner of her mouth tugged upwards. "Perhaps."

He sat down next to her. "So, Clarissa-" He broke off as he saw her flinch. "What?"

"I hate that name." She said matter-of-factly. He raised an eyebrow.

"Would you prefer Adele?" He couldn't keep a slight snap of bitterness out of his voice, but she seemed unfazed.

"I hate that name too." He cocked his head. He _thought_ he had seen her flinch.

"So what do people call you? What should _I_ call you?" He was unabashedly curious about her real life.

She studied him briefly, like she was wondering how he would take the information. "I go by the nickname Clary." She watched him intently for his reaction.

"Clary." He tried it, rolling it around his mouth like a new type of sweet. The same name as-

 _Wait._

Red hair. Green eyes. Apples. Small. Freckled. Linked to Valentine.

How had he not seen it before?

" _Clary?!_ "

 _Clary_ , the friend he'd thought was imaginary, who had helped him through the worst time of his life, beamed brightly, turning her eyes to half moons. He had been right in his prediction; she had turned into a beauty someday.

"Hello, Jonjace," she said softly.

* * *

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	17. This Tangled Mess

**Thanks to everyone who Followed, Favourited, and Reviewed.**

 **Disclaimer: I own none of the characters.**

* * *

 _Chapter song:_

 _Believe by Ayo_

"Clary." He said again. "Clary." He repeated the name like a chant as she looked at him with sparkling eyes. She wore a sly grin.

"Took you long enough." She joked. Since she'd told him, she seemed more relaxed. It was like every secret she kept was a knot in a rope, pulling it so tight it began to fray. Now all the knots had been unpicked and the rope hung loose, no longer under any strain.

"You could have just told me, you know." He admonished, watching with amusement as she leaned back onto her elbows on the grass with a cat-like grace.

"Now where would be the fun in that?" She asked. Light - whether from the manor or the stars, he didn't know - reflected in her eyes as she smirked at him. He smirked back. "But seriously, I dropped so many hints. Are you blind or something? You are nowhere near as smart as everyone makes you out to be."

"No offence taken." He said dryly. She only raised her eyebrows. "But... People talk about me?"

She rolled her eyes at that. "My point is proven."

He looked at her, confused, but she didn't offer an explanation.

Clary folded her hands behind her head. "What, no thanks for getting you out of there?"

This caught him off guard. "What?"

Clary grinned again as she appraised him. "Well... did you think your manacles unlocked themselves nine years ago?" She asked blithely.

"You did that?" He would have thought he'd have noticed.

"No. I talked Jon into doing it. He could be _very_ stealthy at times." She reminisced fondly for a moment, before Jace simply _had_ to shatter the peace.

"I remember Jon." He said thoughtfully, images of a boy who could have been painted in silver rising to mind.

"I'm glad. He deserves to be remembered."

"He's the one who died, isn't he?" Her face didn't lose the fondness, but it turned the same shade of wistful he had seen the other night. She nodded.

"A boating accident." She said calmly. Like the calm you felt right in the middle of the storm, and you knew there was no getting out without braving the chaos. "We searched for hours but we couldn't find his body."

His ears pricked up. "There was no body?" She shook her head no. "Didn't it cross your mind that he could be-"

" _Don't,_ Jace." She said, interrupting him. The pain in her voice was raw. "Don't give me false hope." He opened his mouth to say something, but she quelled him with a look. "You have no idea what his death did to my family. My mother fell into a coma from heartbreak. Sebastian stopped talking to me _at all_ , and only started again recently. My father stopped so much as acknowledging me, because he misses my mother and I'm the spitting image of her. We all drifted apart."

He didn't know what to say to her words.

"Speaking of Sebastian," she said suddenly. She sounded cautious and he vaguely wondered if she was scared how he was going to take this. "He knows about the meetings."

He did not take it well.

" _W_ _hat?!_ " He said, stepping back.

"He knows, and covers for me to make sure I don't get caught, and gives me warnings about when Valentine's spies in the Clave are coming too close to the truth."

Jace looked on, stunned. He really needed to reassess his views on The Ice Prince. Not to mention the other, rather distressing piece of information in that sentence.

" _Spies in the Clave?_ " She nodded grimly. " _W_ _ho?_ "

She met his shocked gaze. Her emerald eyes flicked down to glance at his lips, which were parted in horror. The movement was so brief he was ninety percent sure it was a trick of the light.

But he had to suppress a smile at the other ten percent.

"Anyone influential, or important, or vital to the system." She said, ticking the words of on her fingers. "Most of the Clave, come to think of it. Only some of the newer recruits, like yourself and your family, aren't in on it. The authorities view them as a threat and are trying to undermine them. The organisation's a farce, trying to create the illusion that something is being done, but is actually leading everyone away from the real cause. "

"Which is?"

"If I knew, I'd tell you." He was silent while she searched her face, eyes darting like hummingbird's. He found it hard to process all the information so he let it digest itself, instead focusing on a small cloud of freckles over Clary's left cheekbone. "You don't believe me," she said at last.

And he realised she was right. He _didn't_ believe her. Maybe he could believe her if she said that a few select people high up in the Clave were corrupt, like Malachi. But most of the Clave, the organisation he had dedicated his life to serving? No way.

"Let's just drop it for now." He murmured, and saw her nod in agreement. "What are we going to do about this whole 'kidnapping you' deal?"

She smiled slightly, and he half-hoped it was at his use of the word _we_. "Maybe tell your superiors that I need to arrange an opportune time and place? That should keep them off our backs until we've sorted through this tangled mess of lies." She looked at him for confirmation, like she trusted his opinion. Actually trusted it.

"Yeah," he replied.

Her words echoed through his head. _Until we've sorted through this tangled mess of lies._

* * *

The next morning, as Jace walked into the Clave's base of operations to report to Malachi that his source needed more time, he couldn't help but feel jumpy. He had gotten little sleep the previous night, those damned words having caught a merry-go-round in his head, and now, knowing there were spies and traitors hidden in his haven behind earnest smiles and good intentions, he was the definition of paranoid.

He heard the shouting even before he saw the shouters. As he rounded a corner he saw a small crowd had gathered in the corridor, watching two adults having a heated argument in raised voices. He pushed his way to the front, two metres from where they stood spitting words at each other, and beheld the scene.

Malachi was as emotional as Jace had ever seen him, with his dark brows pinched like gathering storm cloud and his mouth set in a thin, hard line. "It's not your call to make, Maryse." He barked, tightly. "I am the Consul, and I will make the main decisions."

Jace had never seen his adoptive mother so angry. Maryse's black hair had escaped from its harsh bun and tumbled down her back. Her electric blue eyes were wide and absolutely apoplectic with rage. "But _this is wrong_! You are blaming a teenage girl for her father's actions, and letting her bear the consequences. It's like holding the Queen responsible for Henry VIII's cruelty! It's utterly absurd!"

Malachi sneered. "Why should we value the life of Valentine Morgenstern's daughter?" To his dismay, Jace could see that most of the watching and listening crowd agreed with the man. They nodded their heads, casting harsh glares and words at the woman arguing against it.

The woman in question laughed sharply. "The same reason we value all life! What makes hers worth less than ours?"

Malachi didn't need to answer that question, as one of the onlookers snarled "She was born from the blood of a murderer!"

"Maryse," Malachi continued, voice deathly quiet. "Keep your head down, obey your orders, and do not question me again, or you and your Lightwood brats can leave the Clave and never come back." The hallway fell silent after that.

Maryse drew herself up to her full height, regal and proud until the end. "I prefer not to associate with heartless killers as it is." She whispered, then turned and marched through the crowd. It parted for her like she was Moses, and it was the Red Sea.

Jace could only guess what would happen now. Maryse would go to Alec's desk and drag him out of the infernal building. Isabelle would be kicked out of schooling at the Institute and be forced to attend a normal school. Robert-

At this point, Maryse had reached the doors. She turned to her husband, who hovered a few metres behind her like he was afraid he would combust if he came into contact with the anger she was radiating. "Are you coming or staying, Robert?" She asked, and though her gaze was fire, her voice was ice. Jace couldn't see Robert's face from his perspective, but Maryse could and clearly the answer was written there.

"Very well." She said. "I suppose that's the finalisation of our divorce." She turned to face the curious crowd. "As of right now, I am Maryse Trueblood again, and if I ever speak to any of you again, I expect some choice words to be exchanged." She leaned in and whispered in Robert's ear something that Jace just caught. "Have fun with Annamarie Highsmith."

He didn't understand what she meant, but Robert blanched. His opened his mouth to say something, but the slam of the door behind his ex-wife cut him short. A hush descended.

Jace turned to find Malachi staring at him. "It's your choice, Jonathan." The man said, with a hint of glee. "Go with them, or stay with us."

Triumph gleamed in his eyes, as though he already knew what Jace would do. What he had manipulated Jace into doing.

 _"Only some of the newer recruits, like yourself and your family, aren't in on it. The authorities view them as a threat and are trying to undermine them."_

He believed Clary now.

The door swung shut behind him, but he heard the opening of another door. One that would actually lead somewhere.

* * *

Sebastian responded to his father's summons as soon he as received them. He walked down the hall to where the study was and braced himself, one hand on the doorknob, and one raised to knock.

Him keeping Clary's secret and even warning her about certain things when he was sure it would make its way back to Jace Herondale... That was his form of rebelling. It was all he could bring himself to do.

Clary had been right the other day. He was a coward.

But even so, he was going to keep his sister safe, and make sure her dreams stayed alive.

He knocked on the door. His father's stern voice called "Come in."

"You wished to see me, father?" Sebastian inquired, filled with the same awe, respect and fear that had been instilled into him from youth. Valentine barely looked at from the notes he was making as he motioned for Sebastian to sit. The teenager did so, trying to hide his shaking palms. What if Valentine had found out Max Lightwood was still alive and ordered him to end the boy? What if his father had discovered Clary's actions? What if he knew that Sebastian had been helping her? What if-

 _What if you're being paranoid?_

Valentine finished his writing as Sebastian clasped his trembling hands together on the desk. His father looked up at him, finally giving him his full, undivided attention. "The Lightwoods, minus Robert Lightwood, including Jonathan Herondale, have left the Clave." He stated.

"Is that good?" Sebastian asked cautiously.

"It's excellent, Sebastian. Now our spies can gain even greater control of the organisation, since that form of resistance is gone. They only have to deal with a few disagreeable members who remain, and then the Clave will never bother us again."

Sebastian nodded slowly. His father wouldn't call him done here just to tell him that.

"You're wondering why I'm telling you this. I just wanted to congratulate you on your plan. It was ingenious, getting Jonathan Herondale to trust you and feeding him just enough information to get him to trust you. Now his rash actions have paved the way for him to being kicked out."

Sebastian nodded, accepting the congratulations like he would another burden, a crown that was more hindrance than honour. He had told his father that he was the spy trying to gain Jace's confidence, to spur him into doing something reckless, giving Malachi and excuse to get him out of the way. Of course, either Jace or Malachi hadn't been the most forthcoming with information. If they had, then his father may have noticed that the traitor was in fact, female.

It was the best he could do.

"A curious thing really," Valentine continued, tapping his pen against the paper. Sebastian tracked the movement with his eyes. That wasn't normal. What was he playing at? "The final straw for Maryse was when she objected to the inhumanity of the plan Malachi had decided on. Do you know what it was?"

Sebastian shook his head. "No."

"He had proposed to kidnap Clarissa and hold her ransom."

Sebastian had a jagged intake of breath. Anger coursed through his veins. He didn't care if Malachi was on 'their' side. If he hurt Clary...

"The plan was," Valentine continued, "to send some of the wilder members of the Clave-" Sebastian knew perfectly well that 'wilder' meant, not on Valentine's side "-to do it. Then we, as Clarissa's loving family, would defend her and kill her attackers. The likelihood is that that will still happen. Two birds with one stone." He smiled a rare smile. Sebastian wished it wasn't over killing.

"Clary won't be in any danger will she?" He asked.

"Of course not. I would never let my daughter get hurt." Sebastian severely doubted that. Valentine seemed to pick up on this, and reached over to grasp Sebastian's hands where they lay limp on the desk. "You two are the last family I have. I love you both."

And then he was waving Sebastian out of the room, every inch the cold leader they knew him as, and no sign of the father Sebastian had barely glimpsed.

* * *

 **I have a feeling there's something missing in this chapter, but I don't know what it is. Tell if you think you know.**

 **What did you think of Clary's revelation in her and Jace's talk? What do you think happened between Robert and Maryse? What did you think of Maryse and Malachi's argument? How did you react to Sebastian and Valentine's conversation?**

 **Review?!**


	18. The Man in the Moon

**Disclaimer: I own none of the characters. You know the drill.**

* * *

 _Chapter songs:_

 _The Star of a Story by Heatwave_

When Isabelle checked her phone, she saw she had five missed calls and twelve texts from Simon. She scrolled through them out of curiosity, and no intent of texting back.

 _You should probably know, Maia told me what happened.-S_

She rolled her eyes at that. Of course she would. Those two were closer that Isabelle was with either of them. She'd always felt slightly like the odd one out.

 _I don't know what to say -S_

 _I'm sorry? -S_

Isabelle scoffed at the last one. Simon was painfully awkward until the end. She didn't even know why she liked him.

Yes she did.

She liked the way he would gesture wildly whenever he was talking about something he loved, and the calm that seemed to surround him like a veil when he sat strumming his guitar. She liked the thought and care he put into his words, the cute concern he got whenever she was angry, and even the lopsided grace with which he smiled.

She wasn't just in over her head. She was so deep she couldn't even see the surface.

She huffed in frustration as the ping of another text received rang out. She even like his damn stubbornness, despite how annoying it was at the moment.

 _Look, I get you're mad. Can we just meet up, talk it out? I refuse to discuss where we stand via a text message I'm not even sure you're reading -S_

Isabelle considered it, then typed in a date, time, and place. She didn't say anything other than that. Let him guess her attitude to it on his own.

He had hurt her. He deserved to suffer for a bit.

Her life was already hectic enough as it was, what with her family being kicked out of the Clave and losing their main source of income, not to mention the divorce and Max's comatose state. She didn't need relationship drama over the top of that.

She'd felt like laughing as she was taken out of the Institute. She hadn't been bothered by walking away from the only career choice she'd ever taken, because honestly her love for the thrill of the mission was mainly overruled by her deepest loathing of the condescending personalities of most of her coworkers. Whilst she left, she knew that the Clave was making a big mistake. Her family were some of the best there was. The organisation would need them.

What she was angry at, was her father's betrayal. Her mother had told her a long time ago about him cheating, but she'd have thought that in the end, four kids would be enough to persuade him to stay.

Apparently not.

What her mother had told her: it was what had turned her into a heartbreaker. If she let no one in, didn't let herself grow attached, and broke _their_ hearts, hers would remain whole.

Of course, she hadn't exactly listened to her own advice. She'd gone and fallen for Simon. And look how that had turned out.

A loud knock on the door startled from her thoughts. Without waiting for the "come in" Isabelle wasn't sure she could be bothered to say, Jace barged in, closely followed by Alec.

Isabelle looked up with an annoyed expression plastered on her face, from where she lay on her stomach on her bed with her feet waving next to the headboard.

"Sure, come in. How can I help you?" She said dryly, narrowing her eyes at her brothers. Usually Alec at least winced when she gave him that death glare, but he didn't even flinch. And trying to dissuade Jace with a glare was like trying to put out the sun with a hose.

"Jace here," Alec said pointedly, sliding to sit on her bed next to her, "has something _urgent_ to tell us."

Isabelle raised an eyebrow at Jace, silently inquiring as to why Alec seemed so hostile. The blonde waved a dismissive hand. "He's just pissed I interrupted his phone call with Magnus."

She shot up at that, the curiosity in her eyes going from mild to intense. She grinned at her brother, who could already tell what she was going to say and cut her off. "Not now, Isabelle."

Grudgingly, the Lightwood siblings turned their attention to Jace. "So," Alec said, patiently. "What is this about?"

Jace fidgeted nervously. "My midnight meetings." At Isabelle's blank expression, he continued. "Since I only told Alec about them, I'll start from the beginning..."

* * *

"Who traded your life for a soap opera?" Isabelle asked jokingly. Jace knew she was still trying to come to terms with the sheer impossibility of the events. Hell, he hadn't even come to terms with it himself.

"But... Wow." Alec agreed. "Since when were you stupid enough to kiss someone you barely knew?"

Jace hit him on the arm. " _That's_ what you got out of the harrowing story of my life?"

Alec shrugged, a teasing grin lighting up his features. "You tease me about my love life; it's only fair I return the favour."

Jace only rolled his eyes.

"So are you going to meet with her later?" Isabelle asked, dark eyes as round as chocolate covered biscuits. "Can we come with you? Clary sounds interesting, and I want to meet the girl who finally got through to you." She clapped her hands together. "Little Jace is all grown up!"

"'Little Jace', happens to be taller than you." He pointed out.

"Touché." She beamed though. "You still haven't answered my question."

 _"Questions._ I'm pretty sure there were two." He took a breath. "Yes, no. Yes: I am going to meet with her; it's hard enough for her to keep the meetings under wraps as it is, without getting stood up. And no: you can't come, because I have no doubt she'll freak out. She's not used to being around people."

"Fair enough." Isabelle's eyes still sparkled, despite her disappointment. She'd make sure she met her one day. "But you'd better tell me everything."

* * *

When Jace reached their regular meeting place, he found Clary curled up in the dewy grass, seemingly fast asleep. He smile, and was hit by the feeling he was being watched, though he thought nothing of it. He sat down next to her, careful not to disturb the redhead, and just gazed at the manor. What had it been like for Clary, growing up there with little to no human contact? Had she been scared at night? It was a beautiful place, he had to admit, but now he knew the truth, the grand, empty manor had an unmistakable tinge of loneliness to it.

He glanced down at the sleeping girl next to him. He didn't regret telling Alec and Isabelle about her - despite the copious amounts of teasing he'd had to endure after - but a part of him felt she was too precious to tell anyone about. The way a secret is only a secret if it's kept a secret. But he didn't think the magic of whatever they were would disappear; he just worried it might suddenly change from it's true form, with the ebb and flow of judgement coursing through it.

As though his thoughts had been loud enough to rouse her, Clary blinked, then stretched. She looked up at Jace groggily. "Why didn't you wake me up?" Her voice held a tinge of annoyance, even at near midnight.

He answered truthfully. "I didn't want to." Although he didn't know why.

She blinked again, like she was trying to process what he said, then gave up. She straightened into a sitting position, snapping awake. "I hear you've been kicked out of the Clave."

"I beg to differ." He retorted. "I walked out of my own accord."

A slow smile spread across her face. "I'm surprised you came." She admitted. "You don't have any reason to."

This struck him, hard. Perhaps he would have stopped the meetings when she was still acting like snappish Adele, but it seemed with the false name, she'd dropped the false personality. And he liked her real one. It may him want to keep meeting her, for no explainable reason, other than human emotions.

He hadn't answered for a while, but she didn't seem to think her comment merited an answer. Clary just stared at the manor, like he had when she was sleeping, but with a slight frown, as if she was thinking really really hard. He wondered what her thoughts were, whether they would be dark and serious in order to warrant her frown, or if they were just deep and confusing.

He changed the subject. "How did you know I left the Clave?"

"Spies." She said simply, turning to him as she resurfaced from her thoughts. "Spies in the Clave report to Valentine, who informs Sebastian, who warns me. And them I tell you."

"You talk a lot about the supposed 'spies' in the Clave, but do you know any names?" He knew his tone was challenging and a little harsh, but Clary met it with an unconcerned smile. Somewhere in the corner of his mind, he knew it was faked, which stirred up the question: why fake things around him?

"How should I? No one tells me who - at least not intentionally. Sebastian did let one slip earlier."

She paused, giving him a questioning glare. He knew she was messing with him. "And..."

"Malachi Dieudonne." She said smoothly.

He shot up, locking eye contact with her, panic flickering in his irises. "Malachi is my old boss. In fact," another thought came to light, "he's the one who came up with the idea of kidnapping you."

She shook his head. "That won't have been him; that'll have been Valentine."

"Why would he want his enemies to kidnap his daughter?"

She shrugged. "Beats me. It's hard to understand genius madmen's logic."

A less heavy silence fell then. Jace couldn't shake the feeling he was being watched. Clary shivered and he briefly wondered if she felt it too. "Sebastian might know," she said, more to herself than to him.

"Do you really trust Sebastian?" Jace asked. He couldn't deny the disdain he felt for the Ice Prince - the same disdain said Prince treated Jace with.

She narrowed her eyes at him, and suddenly her words were sharp and heated. "Of course I do. He's my brother. If you're insinuating-"

 _Thud._ The soft sound of a footstep behind them broke her off.

Both twisted round so fast they practically knotted their intestines. Jace caught the glint of white blonde hair and his pulse began to race. Even if it was Sebastian he wouldn't be too happy. If it was Valentine, if they'd been caught-

But it wasn't Valentine. And it wasn't Sebastian either, despite the similarities in looks. The teenager in front of them was tall and lean, vaguely familiar, with ivory locks, and eyes the same green - but not as bright, Jace thought - as Clary's.

The boy's eyes were fixed on Clary, whose expression was so full Jace had no idea what was happening.

Therefore he was not expecting it when she strode forwards with power fuelled by emotion, and her hand connected with the taller boys cheek in a white blur.

* * *

 **So... that happened.**

 **Review?**


	19. Weathering the Storm

**Disclaimer: I swear everyone's bored of these by now but... I, sadly, do not own TMI. If I did, I never would have killed Max.**

* * *

 _Chapter song:_

 _You Found Me by The Fray_

 _The Breaking Light by Vienna Teng_

The crack resonated for a good few moments after Clary had slapped the boy. Clary's arm was still braced from the strike, and she was breathing heavily. Her demeanour had changed as quickly as the sea during a summer storm: gone were the calm, crystal clear waters, and now they'd been churned into angry grey-green walls of foam and water as emotion after emotion flooded over her face. Lightning flashed in her eyes.

The boy brought up his left hand to cradle his red cheek and said with enough nonchalance that Jace knew it was faked "Well it's nice to see you too, Clarissa."

Her scowl deepened, if that was possible. She jabbed her finger at his chest. Hard. The boy winced. "You have a lot of explaining to do, Jonathan Morgenstern."

So this was _Jon_. He looked the same as Jace remembered. But he was meant to be... Dead.

That explained Clary's anger.

"Would you even listen if I tried?" Jon asked, reasonably, and slightly wistfully. His green eyes - so much like Clary's, and so little like Sebastian's - found Jace. "Good to see you, Jace."

He nodded in reply. "You too, Jon. If only it was under better circumstances."

Out of the corner of his eye, Jace saw Clary giving them death glares. He glanced at her - and cringed. Her glares were even worse than Isabelle's.

And _that_ was saying something.

"Jon," she said calmly. The calm before the storm, when pressure clogged your nose and ears. "You have thirty seconds to summarise what happened, before I yell for Sebastian."

The ivory-haired boy's eyes widened. Jace knew perfectly well that Clary yelling for her brother wouldn't have any effect, and Clary knew it too. She trusted Sebastian not to betray her secrets. But Jon didn't know that.

He took a deep breath. "IsurvivedtheboatingaccidentandwasfoundbyUncleLukewhotookmeinandofferedmeachancetousethethingsFathertoldmetohelpstoptheCircle."

Jace was grateful that Clary looked just as baffled as he did. "What?"

"I survived the boating accident and was found by Uncle Luke who took me in and offered me a chance to use the things Father told me to help stop the Circle." Clary opened her mouth - to shout at him, judging by the look on her face - but Jon cut her off. "And you can't fault me for betraying our father, when you're doing it too."

"That wasn't what I was going to accuse you of." His sister hissed back, face blank in that way that spoke of unfathomable fury. "And besides, my actions didn't cause Mum to go into a coma from grief, or for the entire family to fall apart!" She shouted the last few words.

Jon's face grew mournful. "Mum went into a coma?" His voice was hoarse, and Clary's anger seemed to drain away into bitterness.

"Yes," she barked unhappily. "But it's not like you care."

Jon's face drooped and he went to argue, but Clary waved her hand. "Don't." She said, voice cracking. "I can't deal with this right now."

She turned around and stalked back down the hill, heels digging into the ground at an awkward angle. The teenagers left on the hill were silent for a moment.

"I believe," Jace said hesitantly, breaking the deafening quiet, "that I owe you long overdue thanks."

Jon waved his hand. Jace couldn't help but compare the gesture to the one Clary had made moments before as she cut her brother off. "Call it even."

Jace was startled. "Why?"

Jon's eyes tracked the redhead as she stormed at an aggressive pace through the manor's back door. "I have a feeling that without you being there for her these past few weeks, that reunion would have gone a lot worse."

* * *

Alec smiled shyly at Magnus as they faced each other in the diner. It was late - so late that Magnus was considering just inviting Alec back to his apartment instead of letting him go back to his siblings. They were the only customers there, and Magnus knew that the waitress was standing at her podium, just waiting for them to leave so she could go home.

 _Too bad._

Magnus grinned to himself and opened his mouth to comment on it to Alec, when a phone buzzed. His raised one, glittery eyebrow. "Surely the wondrous Isabelle Lightwood has better things to do than text her brother on his date at two in the morning." He said cheerfully. "Sleep, to name but one."

Alec frowned, casting his deep blue eyes down to check his phone. He shook his head, the electric lights catching in his inky hair and making it gleam. "It's not my phone."

Magnus checked his own. He was beginning to get annoyed at how often people would text the two of them on dates. It was really very rude.

He cursed when he saw the message. "I'm really sorry, Alec. I have to go." He saw the waitress lean in, looking thrilled. Alec's disappointed expression almost undid him, but he seemed used to the occurrences where Magnus had to leave early by now. That alone made Magnus , but he forced himself to walk out after throwing money down on the table for their meal.

He would tell Alec about Luke, and Maia, and the others soon. But not yet.

Until then, he was going to kill Jonathan.

* * *

"Why are you interrogating me?"

"Why are you resisting? You promised to tell me everything."

"Unfortunately." Jace sighed, running a hand through his hair. As soon as he'd stepped through the door - _at two in the morning_ , he might add - Isabelle had grabbed his wrist and dragged him up the stairs to her room. "But I don't think this is something she'd want shared."

Isabelle's brows furrowed. "Did you take it further, or something?" She inquired.

Jace choked on his own spit. "No! Why would you think that?" She shrugged whilst he regained his composure. "It's just that it was a personal, family matter that I just happened to witness."

Isabelle raised her eyebrow, but thankfully didn't inquire further. A comfortable, if thick, silence fell, like a warm blanket had been wrapped around them and snuffed out any noise. Jace knew Isabelle well enough to know that her brain was ticking away ferociously for some reason, but he didn't know her well enough to guess what about.

"Mum says we might have to move." Isabelle said abruptly, breaking the silence. "But she can't find a place that we can afford that can hold four kids and one adult."

Jace turned to look at her, certain that the lack of emotion on her face was a mask. "Why would we have to move?"

His sister's voice hardened. "Apparently, the deed to the house is under _his_ name." Isabelle had refused to call Robert her father since the incident. They'd always had a rocky relationship, and this seemed to be the last straw. "So we can't stay, and Mum's too proud to ask him for it." Despite the fact she undoubtedly sided with her mother, there was a tinge of bitterness to her voice.

"Pride is a very important thing," he said, thinking of what Clary had said in a time that seemed years ago. _It's my pride talking. Of course it doesn't make sense._ "It gives us a sense of worth even when everyone else thinks we're worthless."

"I agree," Isabelle said dully, before jumping up. "Now get out of my room. I don't know if you've noticed, but it's two in the morning."

Laughing, Jace allowed her to chivvy him out. Just before the door closed behind him, he heard a snatch of a conversation.

"Are you sure he has no chance?"

Before the door could swing shut completely, Jace thrust a hand in and tugged Isabelle out into the corridor. She opened her mouth to snap at him, but he shushed her and gestured that they should listen at Maryse's open door. She looked instantly curious and shut up.

"I agree. That would be cruel. There's nothing worse than false hope." Maryse answered. Jace noticed for the first time how tired Maryse looked: her eyes were shadowed and her hair had an abundance of grey. She nodded wearily and passed a hand in front of her face.

"Very well, we'll be there in the morning." She took the phone from her ear and just stared at it for a moment, before setting it down on the empty double bed. She turned to look at Jace and Isabelle with broken eyes. They didn't need to speak, and she answered their unspoken question.

"That was the hospital. They're taking Max off life-support. He's never going to wake up."

* * *

 **I know it's short, but I couldn't think of anything else to put in.**

 **What do you think of Magnus and whatever he's involved in? Do** **you think Clary's reaction to Jon was justified? What are your thoughts on Max?**

 **Review?**


	20. Sleeping Cutie

**Disclaimer: I don't own TMI**...

* * *

 _Chapter song:_

 _Wake Me Up by Avicii_

Max was in a curious place. His limbs felt like they'd been hollowed out and stuffed with iron wool that scratched at his unusually heavy flesh. Spikes of pain wound round the crown of his head like a loop of thorns. A constant itch scraped the inside and outside of his throat, just above his collarbone. All he saw was a dim red, with stripes of pink in the background.

At first his head was as clouded as the winter sky, and a bolt of pain flashed through it when he tried to think too hard. Eventually he resolved to wait for it to clear, and now his mind was sharp and lucid.

All he remembered from before was sitting reading his comic books in his room before a blinding pain smashed in the back of his skull. Then nothing but this strange darkness he couldn't find his way out of.

A while after he became fully conscious, he began to notice little things about wherever he was. He heard the beeping of a machine in the background, and he felt the soft rustle of cold sheets against his still arms. But when he tried to open his eyes - or move _anything_ \- he couldn't. His muscles wouldn't respond.

He could feel the individual punctures where strange tubes went into his body, and the disturbing rattle of his breath like it wasn't his own. He wasn't intentionally breathing in and out, but he was somehow doing it, and he couldn't break the monotonous rhythm this unnatural breathing had.

Some time after he'd woken up, he heard the unmistakable sound of a door opening and closing. His ears strained to identify the soft footsteps that entered the room. From what he could hear, it sounded like three of them.

"I hate hospitals," he heard someone, a male, mutter. "They're so morbid. Serious. Even kids' hospitals. It's like you're forbidden to smile, despite the smiley face posters plastered everywhere."

"Jace," Max heard a higher voice admonish. It was definitely Isabelle. "Stop rambling."

In his mind's eye, Max could picture Isabelle in her heels higher than the i360, marching into the room with the assured, fluid grace she possessed. He imagined her flicking her long hair and grinning at him mischievously, eyes sparking with suppressed laughter. She had always seemed like such a Cheshire Cat to Max, with her constant cheer - except when she went into one of her moods - and her liability to go out of her way to annoy her brothers.

What he heard - because he _still couldn't see_ \- contrasted his mental image drastically. The tread that was far too light to be Jace or Alec's approached what he presumed was the edge of the bed he was lying in. It lacked the usual clack Isabelle's footsteps had because of her high heels. Cool, slender fingers clasped his own. He recognised the touch. _Isabelle._

But when he heard someone give a harsh sob, and felt the vibrations from it travel through their intertwined hands, he thought that maybe he didn't recognise the sister holding his hand at all.

"Oh, Max," said the familiar voice, sounding like it was wound so tight it was liable to snap. "They say you're not waking up. Why won't you wake up?"

He didn't understand. Why wouldn't he have woken up? Not the mention the fact that _he was already awake_.

He felt Isabelle's other hand gently caress his cheek, brushing a lock of his hair back. Good; it had been really itchy. "The hospital workers told us you're in a coma like they've never seen before," she continued. "They said you had a mild concussion, that you probably fell unconscious because of the blood loss, but that there's no reason for you not to have woken up."

What did she mean he hadn't woken up? _He was already awake!_

"Your brain's being really active," she kept speaking, oblivious to his confusion just as she was oblivious to his waking state. "They said that you should wake up soon, and that maybe you can even hear me. If you can hear me Max, please, please, _please_ wake up."

She leaned down to kiss him on the forehead, and a hot wet droplet felt onto him. He heard little sniffles coming from above him. Was _Isabelle_ actually _crying_?

"I'd say something too, buddy, but you know I'm not good with words." He recognised the stoic rumble of Alec's voice. "And I'm pretty sure Jace here has been struck dumbstruck."

Max tried to muster a giggle at that, but he couldn't manage to. Isabelle gave a weak chuckle. Jace, by the sounds of it, just stood there. He wasn't normally so quiet.

"Bye, Max," a voice said, and it was so quiet he couldn't tell who'd said it. He heard the footsteps retreat down the corridor before the door swung shut, and Max couldn't even crack an eye open to watch them go.

* * *

Max dozed for what may have been moments, or what may have been minutes, when he woke to the feeling of someone softly rubbing their thumb in circles over his knuckles. He recognised the rough, calloused hand instantly. _Jace._

After a while, Jace left. That was the only time Max knew of that he'd come to visit. Isabelle and Alec came regularly, even if they just sat there stiffly. Maryse came and would read to him, snippets of prose he swiftly forgot. It was just comforting to hear the drone of a voice he recognised.

Robert never came. He probably didn't care; he'd never paid that much attention to Max before.

Sometimes, he'd hear conversation between his family members. One specifically caught his attention.

"Jace isn't handling this very well, is he?" Maryse had said in a quiet, almost fearful tone. They always used those voices around him, like if they spoke too loudly, he'd lose his grip on life and spiral away.

"He's handling it," replied a tired voice that Max knew was Alec. "We all are. We just have different methods of doing so."

"Yes, but-" Maryse's voice cracked. "If Max wakes up, don't you think it will hurt him to know that his idolised big brother barely bothered to visit him whilst he was incapacitated?"

Alec said something in reply, but Max had tuned it out. The only part that had impacted him at all in Maryse's speech was that one, horrible word. _If_.

Max had heard about lucid dreamers. People who knew they were dreaming because they recognised the signs that wouldn't recur in reality. Perhaps this was what was happening. He was only dreaming that he was awake, some near-death experience to keep him happy and full of faith in his last moments, and these things he kept hearing were his brain's way of telling him so.

Except, people can wake up from dreams, even nightmares. But it seemed there would be no waking up from this for a long time.

* * *

Max felt into a much deeper sleep than he had before. An abyss of dreamless, lightless nothing than enveloped him and clung to him in folds of darkness even as he resurfaced.

It took him a moment of lying there fully conscious to realise that he could breath normally again. That rhythm he'd hated was gone and his lungs were free to suck in more air than he admittedly needed. He was never taking that control for granted ever again.

He was so swamped with the bliss of that, that it was another moment before he sensed the presences crowding round his bed. Once he noticed them, he began to feel claustrophobic, so he did what any kid would do when faced with getting woken up.

He rolled onto his side and curled into a ball.

His family members gasped simultaneously. His brain finally catching up with his reflexes, Max remembered they thought he was still comatose. He grinned at them, and could practically feel the slow beaming smiles stretching across their faces.

He opened his eyes.

* * *

 **I know that at this point it doesn't make sense why he woke up, but that will be explained later on.**

 **What did you think of Max's thoughts whilst he was unconscious?**

 **Review!**


	21. Brothers & Sisters

**Disclaimer: Yu know the drill...**

* * *

 _Chapter song:_

 _Hey Brother by Avicii_

 _3:00 am the previous morning_

"They're going to do _what_?" Alec asked, voice deadly quiet, fists clenching and unclenching in a rare show of aggression.

Jace eyed him warily, lest his brother lash out. The knowledge that he'd never see Max again hadn't quite sunk in yet, and Jace was constantly skirting around it in his thoughts as he tried to outrun the pain.

Alec had come in from his date about half an hour ago to find his two conscious siblings irritable and devastated by the turn of events and the late hour. He'd demanded to know what was going on, and had just stood there for a few minutes, mouth opening and closing like a fish, until it sunk in.

Now Jace could only watch Alec in shock as the expression on his face blurred the line between grief and rage. His brother was ranting, something that didn't happen often. Jace tuned out; it was nothing he hadn't thought himself.

He refused to think though. Refused to think how he would never again chuckle as he saw his little brother curled up on the sofa, asleep, with his glasses still on his face. Refused to think about the fact he would never again fend off the nine-year old with too many questions that he didn't want to answer. Refused to think about the way he would never take Max to the comic book store, and have to ask him what books he liked so he knew what to get him for his birthday.

He still didn't know. He'd forgotten.

He'd never know now.

He sucked in a painful breath and took off for the door at what must have been faster than sound. He didn't see where he was going, didn't hear the neighbours yells at him for making too much noise in the middle of the night, and didn't feel the cool rush of night air as it caressed his cheek. He just ran and ran blindly, without looking back, because maybe if he ran fast enough he could outrun the truth.

* * *

Several hours later, Jace's lungs felt like they were being forced to inhale and exhale, similar to the automated breathing Max did under the life support. He hadn't visited his little brother since that one time he came on his own. The young boy was heartbreakingly pale, with bony limbs and little fingers as frail and brittle as dry twigs. They hadn't felt that fragile when he'd sat there in silence, thumb rubbing circles over his tiny knuckles.

Jace gulped. It didn't work. Someone seemed to have rammed cotton wool into his mouth and throat. There was even some in his tear ducts, drying up his tears before he could shed them.

Here he was, standing in the hospital room - all white, the way Heaven was supposed to be - here to send off his younger brother into the next life, and _he wasn't even crying_.

Was he too cold-hearted? Did he not care enough? The intense regret and searing grief tying knots in his heart, slowing his circulation and numbing his muscles, begged to differ. But next to him, Alec's eyes were shining like stars turning into supernovas. Maryse was openly weeping, covering her face with shaking hands as she tried to shield her eyes from the sight of the little boy being swallowed amongst the white sheets, and white walls, and white skin. Even Isabelle - face devoid of mascara; between the reasons that she didn't want to cry and ruin her masterpiece, or that she just didn't care at this point, Jace would vote for the latter - had tears shimmering around her lower eyelid and her damp eyelashes clumped together.

He was the only one who couldn't shed a tear. What was wrong with him?

His mangled heart beat in time to a hummingbird's wings as the nurse started pressing buttons on the machine. The knot squeezed tighter and tighter and tighter and tighter and tighter-

The red lights on the strange machine died, and the tightness in Jace's chest shattered. Suddenly the tension was there, then it wasn't, and his heart was as devoid of emotion as the Sahara desert was of water. But, like in the Sahara desert, he could feel great lakes of sorrow and grief bubbling miles below the surface, like the vast amounts of water beneath the sand. Scrunching his eyes shut, he took a deep shuddering breath, chest still ringing from the transition, and gave a sharp pant that anyone but him would recognise as a sob.

If anyone one had been watching the family as a little boy was lost, they would have thought Jace was lost as well.

He glanced sideways, expecting to see his raw agony mirrored in his siblings' eyes - and froze. Alec's eyes and mouth were wide with calm wonder - the kind inspired by miracles - and Isabelle wore a broad, hopeful smile, tears tracing tracks down her cheeks.

Jace turned to look at Max to see where the wonder came from. For a moment all he saw was a limp, skinny body.

Then his trained eyes began to pick out the tiny, fairly important details. Like the rise and fall of his chest, unaided by the equipment. Like the flutter of his fingers resting on the covers. Like the faint smile written across his face.

Like the flash of clear blue as the little boy's eyes opened.

Jace's breath caught as Max looked up at them, groggy but eyeing them cleverly. His irises sparkled with a familiar vitality, and his semi-confused grin flashed a glimpse of white teeth.

"Am I in Heaven?" The voice they'd all thought they'd never hear again said. "Everything's white."

Maryse gave out a short chuckle, then with a single swooping motion descending on Max, hugging him tightly like she'd never let go. She clutched his face, planting a kiss on his brow. Max - like any nine-year-old - scowled and wriggled away, which triggered a laugh in Isabelle.

Jace stood stock still as he watched everyone he considered family swarmed Max, crying tears, knocking heads, and exchanging sobs and laughs. Finally Max looked at him expectantly, bright eyes begging, and he conceded into tentatively holding his little brother. He felt so thin under his large hands, that he held him with the utmost care, lest he shatter.

"Jace," Max huffed exasperatedly. "You can hug me properly. I'm not a doll who's about to break."

Nevertheless, Jace was careful. Terror that he would smother the small thing kept his touch light and reluctant. He swept and finger along Max's cheekbone, and his brother did the same in return. Jace would have laughed, but Max's finger came away wet.

He touched his own cheek. It was warm and damp from tears.

* * *

Clary didn't know how long she'd been sitting outside the manor when she felt her brother's presence. Jace had emailed her and said that he couldn't make it. Although he hadn't specified why, Clary got the feeling it was important. She didn't question him.

She'd come outside when it became apparent that her sleeping habits had altered to allow for her midnight meetings. She'd tossed and turned until she'd given up, thrown open the window, and climbed down.

Now she just sat there studying the manor from the crest of the hill. The cool night air brushed her face like the welcoming touch of a friend. Her red locks stirred a little as she sat there. The little barely-a-girl under the shadow of a large tree, which in turn stood in the shadow of the even larger manor.

From here it looked so beautiful. The light of the half-moon caught the iridescence in the stone, sending shimmers through the air and lending the night an ethereal feel. The bright squares that were the windows shone like glowing eyes. You would never guess the horrors that went on inside the walls, if you only saw this perspective.

With the uncanny ability its owner possessed of knowing her thoughts, a loved and hated voice carried towards her softly. "It looks beautiful from here, doesn't it?"

She didn't turn around. She ignored her brother's question and responded with one of her own. "How long have you been there?"

Jon's voice was full of that oh-so-familiar laughter she'd missed. "Long enough to know that something heavy is on your mind." He said, sitting down next to her. "You wouldn't sit out here for such a long time if there wasn't. What heavy thought is burdening you, little sister?"

"What heavy thought isn't burdening me." She responded dully, still without removing her eyes from their perch on the curl of the gutter. "But I'm not going to unburden them onto you, Jonathan."

"Clary," he said. His hand darted out to grasp her chin and gently turn her head to face him. "You do know you can trust me, don't you?"

"Can I?" She responded in a whisper. The quietness of their voices seemed something too fragile to break.

"Of course," he responded sincerely, and for once they wasn't a hint of laughter to his tone. "You can lean on me, Clary."

She put her head on his shoulder. She felt him chuckle. "I didn't mean it literally," he teased, "but I guess it's a start."

There was a moment of silence.

"Why did you leave?" She dared to broach the terrifying topic that loomed between them like a concrete wall she just wanted to break through.

She felt him sigh. "I can't tell you-"

"Why not?" She ripped herself off of him and onto her feet, leaving him look confused, startled, and a little hurt by her outburst. "What's so important that you pretended to be dead for years and allowed our family to fall apart?"

He methodically got to his feet himself, and stared down at her with a slightly annoyed expression. "You can't pin the blame on me for that." He snapped back. Their eyes - identical colours - met, fire for fire.

"I can and I will," she spat. The peace of the moment before was gone. "Especially considering it was your reckless actions that caused it to happen!"

"Reckless?" He scoffed. The hurt feelings in her were going on offence, so he was forced to go on defence. "Says the girl who sent a life-changing email after a spur-of-the-moment decision. Says the girl who's playing an important part in an important game, but has no idea how the game will be played out. I planned that scene from the moment Luke contacted me-"

"Luke?" She asked, puzzled, but he ignored her.

"-I spent _months_ preparing. It was a far cry from reckless." As soon as he shut his mouth, he realised that she was shaking. A moment later he realised it was from rage. A moment later he realised why.

"You were planning to leave, to break everyone's hearts, for _months_?" Her voice was spiked with venom. "And it never occurred to you to say 'by the way I'm going to disappear for a few years but you don't need to tear each other apart because I won't be actually dead'? Even to me or Mum?"

His face was pained now, he voice practically begging. "It had to be realistic-"

She gave a disgusted snort and turned around to go back inside, but he caught her wrist. She flinched; his touch was burning, erasing all the pleasant coolness she'd gained from the night air. "That's right," he said coldly. She tensed at his voice; it was hard and emotionless and everything the brother she knew wasn't. "Run away from your battles. That's your mode of operation isn't it?" His voice was filled with so much bitterness she shuddered.

Jon let go of her wrist. Clary staggered back, rubbing the scorching patch of skin where his grip had been. As she ran down the hill as fleetly as her feet could carry her, she heard Jon call something to her retreating figure.

"Don't blame me when everything goes up in flames."

* * *

 **I may have teared up a little writing the first scene.**

 **What did you think of the hospital scene with the Lightwoods? What about Clary and Jon's conversation? What do you think Jon's last words mean?**

 **Review?**


	22. The Calm Before the Storm

**Okay, so this is sort of a filler chapter. It gets more exciting in the next one. Think of this as the calm before the storm.**

 **Disclaimer: I only own the plot.**

* * *

 _Chapter song:_

 _War of Hearts by Ruelle_

"Isabelle, go away."

The tall girl huffed childishly, wrinkling her impossibly perfect nose at her little brother. Max's glare was actually quite comical, considering he was giving her the look of death whilst swaddled in white sheets and blankets, with a face sweeter than one of Cupid's disciples.

Not that Isabelle found anything about this situation remotely funny. It was too soon to look back on this situation with anything but overwhelming relief, and she believed it might be that way for all eternity.

"I'm only trying to be _helpful._ " She emphasised the last word as she fluffed up Max's pillow for the umpteenth time. The look on his face was murderous. He'd made it clear he loathed having to stay in a hospital room for the next few days, and Isabelle's treatment didn't seem to be helping his souring mood.

"You don't need to look after me like this."

She scoffed good-naturedly. "Of course I do. We almost lost you, Max," she was fairly sure she flinched more than he did at her words, "and I'm not taking any chances of anything happening like that again. Mum's looking at new houses so the assassin can't find us again, and if in the meantime I'm useless, I will spend time making sure you're as comfortable as possible."

"How am I supposed to be comfortable if you make me move every twenty seconds so you can rearrange something?" He half-cried at the absurdity. "I'm not a child, Izzy." He argued reasonably, his willingness to discuss their disagreement a testament to his statement.

"Technically, you're a child so long as you're under eighteen. I still have every right to do this."

" _You're_ under eighteen," he pointed out, jabbing an accusing finger in her face. She jerked her head back, nose crumpling, disgruntled. "Yet I don't see you being forced to lie-in, with Alec and Jace waiting on you hand and foot."

She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "A girl can dream." She grinned at him wickedly, and Max rolled his eyes.

"Seriously, Isabelle. Get out before I ignore hospital protocol and strangle you myself."

She put her hand over her heart. "So violent," she lamented theatrically, before turning and doing as he asked. She giggled at the fiery gaze burning a hole through her spine.

The brunette chuckled to herself as she strode through the impeccably clean hospital corridors, the sounds bouncing off the stark walls whilst she made her way to the waiting room. Maryse had insisted on only one person visiting Max at one time, claiming he must be tired and that dealing with all three of them was stressful, and since none of his siblings were willing to even _consider_ leaving his side, they took fifteen minute turns in his room, waiting in the allocated seats when it was someone else's.

When she reached the poster bedecked double doors that heralded patients, doctors and visitors into the waiting room, she spied through one of the small windows in the door that Alec and Jace were sitting next to one another and were conversing in low tones, serious looks plastered on their faces.

She swung the doors open with the dramatic flair she never failed to possess and at the demanding sound of her heels clacking against the floor her brothers' attention instantly snapped to her. Alec furrowed his brow. "Iz, you're five minutes early. I'd have thought you'd spend every last moment of your time with Max."

She elegantly took a seat next to Jace, with Alec on the other side of the blonde. "Forget overprotective brothers; overprotective sisters is more realistic," she quipped in response to his comment. "But, alas, Max seems to find my continual fussing irritating and sent me on my way."

Jace's head jerked up. "Does that mean I get another five minutes with him?" He asked eagerly. Isabelle rolled her eyes, though she didn't blame him. That's probably what she would do in his shoes.

She waved her hand. "Yes. Go look after him." As he launched himself out of his seat, she muttered to his retreating back "because Heaven knows you don't trust anyone else to do it."

Alec sighed, an exclamation of weariness. "He feels guilty," he admonished to her. "After all, Max was ... attacked ... whilst he was in the house. He blames himself."

Isabelle glanced at the long-closed doors. "He's under a lot of stress recently, what with him meeting with his 'Clary', and willingly leaving the Clave, and Max falling into a coma..."

"We leave stressful lives." Alec said simply. "His just became more so."

She huffed, plopping back onto her seat. "It would be a whole lot easier for him if he understood his feelings towards Clary." She shook her head. "I don't have anything against the girl, but the way she gets under Jace's skin is fascinating."

Alec nodded in agreement. "That's what I was talking to him about just now. He says that Clary's going through lots of shit in her life as well, so they're just trying to stay friends and support one another until they're in more stable positions."

Isabelle scoffed harshly. "What could possibly be going on in _her_ sheltered life that compares to Jace's problems?"

Alec shrugged nonchalantly, but his face was pained. "Jace wouldn't say, but it sounds pretty bad. He mentioned that she's feeling angry and scared and grateful and everything that it's possible to feel at once. Besides, we now practically nothing about her. We can't judge."

She snorted. " _You_ might not be able to." _But I can._ The words hung unspoken in the air between them. Perhaps it was unfair, but if life wasn't fair, why should she be?

"Speaking of feelings," Alec broke the silence suddenly; the sombreness in the air dispelling. "What's this I hear about-"

She groaned, burying her face in her hands. "I am _not_ talking about Simon with you."

"Actually, I was going to say Maia." He continued pleasantly, completely unfazed by her sudden hostility. "She contacted me the other day and told me everything, and about how you haven't contacted her since." Isabelle grumbled something akin to "traitor" under her brother's worried eyes.

"So what if I haven't?" She asked aggressively, throwing her hands up.

"You can't blame her for making a mistake, Izzy." He whispered softly. "Hell, you can't blame her for _Simon's_ mistakes. I assure you, I wouldn't lose any sleep if you told Simon to piss off and you never saw him again, but Maia is your best friend. Don't lose her over a boy."

She almost snarled at her brother. "I'll contact her, when I'm ready."

"But-"

"So, Alexander," she leaned back with an innocent smile on her face, but her eyes glinted with a dangerous malice. "Speaking of _feelings_ , how are you and Magnus doing?"

Alec started fidgeting. "Have I ever told you how much I hate it when you turn the tables on these discussions?" He asked eventually, with a tinge of bitter humour.

She smirked. "Your complaining generally says that for you." Alec cast his eyes down. "Now, spill."

He looked down at his hands, which lay still in his lap. "We're going great," he stuttered. Isabelle's dark eyes narrowed.

"You're not telling me the full story," she accused, waving a finger in his face.

His blue eyes were suddenly restless. They glanced at the row of chairs opposite them, at the posters on the walls, then down at his intertwined hands. Finally, he seemed to decide that the rotating ceiling fan was a fascinating subject to look at and stared at it for the rest of their discussion. "Look, Isabelle, it's just-"

"What?" She leaned forward eagerly.

He huffed. "Look, it's just that for our last three dates, he's had to leave for something important. And he won't tell me what it is."

Isabelle knew her brother well enough to know that he felt he'd phrased it wrong. It had come out like he was being paranoid, and it didn't sound like much of a big deal when he put it like that, but Alec wouldn't have been worried enough to voice it if it wasn't.

She leaned back again, biting her lip. "Have you actually asked him?"

Alec cast his eyes downwards, startled. After a moment the shock passed and he began to look sheepish. Isabelle resisted the urge to laugh, knowing that it wouldn't help. "You haven't even tried asking him?"

Alec muttered something unintelligible, looking embarrassed. She reached out and put her hand on his wrist.

"You know you can tell me anything, right? I won't judge."

Alec gave her a soft, thankful smile. "I know, Iz. You never do."

* * *

Clary had had a fairly uneventful day by the time four o'clock rolled around, generally filled with her sketching harsh representations of Jon in her multitude of sketchbooks. Perhaps it was unfair of her to treat her long lost brother with such hostility when she hadn't even heard his side of the story, but she had so much bitterness spawned from years of being on her own that she couldn't help it.

And although she would never admit it, deep down it hurt. It hurt that her beloved brother had up and left without a backward glance. And anger was a sort of shield, to prevent her from feeling that hurt.

Despite the early hour, she was honestly considering just going to bed. She had nothing else to do.

What had her life come to.

She'd been sitting in her desk chair staring at the latest picture of Jonathan. It was one inspired by his parting words: of him walking away from a burning building that looked a lot like the manor. The foreground was all in black and white, whilst she'd done the flames in the most vibrant shades of orange, red and yellow she could find. She shuddered at the cold, unfeeling expression on his face in the drawing; it matched what he'd looked like when she last saw him.

The door opened just as she was rising from her seat, catching her mid-yawn. Sebastian stood there with a grin on his face. "What?" She asked.

He held up a pack of cards. "Want to play?"

* * *

Jonathan had waited on the crest of the hill where Clary and Jace usually met, hoping they would show up and he could try and talk to Clary again. He regretted being so cold to her the night before. He should have known that that wasn't how you got Clary to forgive you. She hated it when people hid their true emotions, because it was like they were trying to manipulate and wrong-foot her.

He could see his brother and sister's silhouette's in the window to her room. Their laughter carried towards him and just proved how much he'd isolated himself from his family. Loneliness was a steady ache inside him. They'd been playing cards for some hours now, and the autumn sky was beginning to darken. He heard Sebastian shuffle them again, heard Clary tease him that would lose for once.

When he'd made his decision, he realised, he hadn't considered the personal consequences. But the decision was made.

He listened to his twin's guffaw, and compared himself to him. The Sebastian he remembered had been cold and detached, with little time for anyone else; he'd been a stark contrast to Jon's selfless nature.

But he'd listened to Clary and Seb for hours now, and clearly she'd warmed up to him, and he her. Clary had hated Sebastian before. What other changes had he missed in his absence?

He turned to walk away, not wanting to see the effects of what he'd done. But a thought haunted him still: the image of himself reflected in Clary's green eyes.

Because in that moment, he'd seen it. In that moment, he'd looked exactly like Valentine.

* * *

"I can't believe you won _again_ ," Clary lamented, throwing her hand of cards down. Sebastian grinned at her, tiny green streaks in his eyes sparkling.

It had grown late and the window had been turned from window to mirror. She could see her messy room in it almost more effectively than in her actual mirror.

She stretched her hands in a yawn, much to her brother's amusement, and accidentally knocked her sketchbook off the table. Quick as a whisper, Sebastian had snatched it up, smirking at her scowl and flipping it to the middle page.

His brows furrowed, then he flipped to the next page. And the next. And the next. "Why do you keep drawing Jonathan?" He asked concernedly.

She took a deep breath. He had a right to know and besides, he told her his secrets. "Because he's alive." She said flatly. Before he could get a word out, she hurried on. "He confronted me on one of my meetings with Jace."

He breathed in. She could see how he pushed the indignation at not being told sooner aside, and asked "If he's alive, then why hasn't he come back sooner?" He inquired, voice so level she knew it was forced.

She shook her head ruefully. "I don't know. He didn't get the chance to explain." He quirked an eyebrow and she elaborated at his unspoken request. "I kind of got a bit angry at him."

He laughed slightly at that, but his laughter dissolved quickly. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" When she didn't answer he continued. "Do you not trust me?" There wasn't a hint of anger in his voice, only sorrow.

That was the difference between her and Sebastian. She became angry at people who hurt her, so she didn't have to feel the hurt they inflicted, no matter whether or not her anger hurt them. Sebastian, on the other hand, went straight to the hurt, because he knew that in his anger he could wound someone else.

He was so selfless.

"I would've but-" She broke off. Not just because of the sudden crackling sound she heard, although that was significant in this context.

But because she smelled smoke.

* * *

 **There may be a few spelling/ grammatical errors in this since I don't have the time to proofread it.**

 **Review?**


	23. Up In Flames

**I'm so sorry it's been ages. I had writers block, followed by a week with absolutely no time for writing, then a weeks holiday with no wifi. At least I managed to type out at least a section of a chapter for most of my stories so they should be up soon.**

 **Shoutout to Shauna Kullden for giving me the chapter song.**

 **I don't own TMI.**

* * *

 _Chapter song:_

 _Up In Flames by Ruelle_

The brightly painted cards fluttered out of Clary's hands and hit the floor with a deceptively loud thud. She exchanged a co

ncerned glance with Sebastian, who at first looked at her with confusion, then realisation, then fear, as he jumped rails onto her train of thought. He rose to his full height - with shaking legs, Clary noted - and crept towards the door, as though a single noise might anger the monster they suspected to lie outside the door.

As her brother flung the door open in one sweep of his arm, Clary registered with a sinking heart that a thick veil of dark smoke was strung over the corridor, reducing every ornament to a looming silhouette in the fog. She jumped as she felt cold fingers entangle with her own. The crackling sound was louder here.

"Clary," murmured Sebastian. He was still keeping quiet for whatever reason. "On my mark, run. We need to get out of here."

Clary nodded. The smoke was seeping into her sinuses now, reducing her voice to a rough rasp. Every breath scraped painfully against her throat and lungs.

"Three," came Sebastian's hoarse count. She was glad to know she wasn't the only one who needed a moment to gather any sparse courage.

"I'm scared," she whispered. She wasn't even sure if she was talking to her brother; she just needed to say it out loud, to admit it.

"I know," came the response. He squeezed her hand. His previously clammy skin was suddenly feverish. "I am too." A shuddering breath. "Two."

Clary steeled herself to run, positioning her short skinny legs into a braced position. She half-expected to be stumbling through the house whilst Sebastian pulled her after him.

"One. Go!"

They took off like twin bullets as the tension coiled in their calves sprung free. Clary was indeed stumbling, but every time she regained her footing, even if she did stay a half-step behind her brother.

She felt the heat of the flames behind her and her already racing heart quickened. _I don't want to die. I'm too young to die. I've barely helped the world at all._ Thoughts hammered through her head and made her eyes sting and water from the tragedy of it all, if not because of the smoke invading them. Now her breath was sand being choked down her trachea and her leg muscles were writhing snakes trying their best to slow her down. But she wouldn't let them. _I don't want to die._

They ran past a door that was usually locked rocking on it's hinges. Papers and other, more explosive things were creating a storm of fire within the room. Before she had a chance to get a good look, Sebastian was dragging her along again. "Don't... Ask," he gasped out. She didn't, and swiftly forgot about it.

But the next open door they ran past, she couldn't ignore. Wrenching her hand out of Sebastian's, she staggered into the room. He whirled around with half-crazed eyes to scream "Clary, what are you doing?"

Then he saw what she was looking at.

Jocelyn lay perfectly still in her bed, her unchanging state unruffled by the chaos that surrounded her. The matriarch's steady breathing had been reduced to an unstable wheeze, and the sound of it made Clary cringe.

She rounded on Sebastian. "You have to carry her out."

To her surprise he didn't argue, just move to shift Jocelyn into a position he could carry her in. Once she was firmly in his arms, he turned to see his sister running the tap to the sink in the corner of the room, and soaking several of their mother's dressing gowns in the cold water.

"What are you-" he was cut off by Clary draping two of the damp clothes over him and Jocelyn, and then one over herself.

She met his gaze grimly. "Let's go."

* * *

The nurse had shooed all visitors out of Max's room so he had a chance to sleep. It appeared that, despite the two weeks of inactivity, he was exhausted.

Isabelle, Alec, and Jace sat in the hospital waiting room, each of them loathe to leave their little brother alone in the hospital, even if he had told them "go home and stop bothering me. You're so tired you look like zombies". Isabelle suspected he secretly enjoyed the fuss made of him; it was a change from how little he saw his siblings, what with Alec and Jace on missions during the day and dates at night, and Isabelle's tendency to lock herself in her room when she was home.

Jace had been dared by Isabelle to try and flirt with the young woman working at the reception, and he was doing so, with very entertaining results. From what Isabelle could see and hear, the receptionist remained unimpressed and finally sent her brother packing with the words "you're making a fool of yourself." Isabelle openly laughed at Jace as he plopped himself back into his seat, wearing a thoroughly disgruntled expression. Catching a glimpse of her amusement, he stuck his tongue out at her.

"Are you two finished embarrassing each other yet?" Alec asked mildly, with a tinge of irritation, from where he sat opposite them reading his book.

"Never," they responded in unison, grinning at the slow smile that spread across his face.

He glanced up. "Well, could you do it a bit quieter then, because-" he froze suddenly, all the colour having drained out of his face.

"What?" Isabelle inquired playfully, but the teasing expression dropped at the sheer jumble of negative emotions that seemed to be fighting their way onto her brother's face. She turned to see for herself what had him so horror-struck, then froze herself.

Because Robert Lightwood was walking through the door.

Isabelle's mind was temporarily blurred with fury. _How dare he._ How dare he willingly walk out of their family, then breeze back in to visit the youngest one like it was nothing.

She glanced around for her mother on instinct, but Maryse wasn't there. She was out looking for affordable homes that could house three kids and one, unemployed adult.

Isabelle would have to handle this on her own. She didn't hesitate.

"What are _you_ doing here?!" She hissed at him. Her steps over were firm and authoritative. Her perfectly shaped upper lip curled into an ugly display of disgust.

Robert looked stricken, reaching out a large hand to try and rest it on her shoulder. She shook it off, spitting at him. "Don't touch me!"

A hurt expression twisted his features. It looked uncomfortable. "Isabelle-"

"You have no right to visit Max." She continued relentlessly and without mercy. "Not when you walked out on all of us without a backward glance. Not when you forsook him for a little bit of _fun_."

She could see the hurt hardening into anger. Good. She needed someone to yell at.

"Isabelle," he thundered. "You may not see me regularly anymore, or live under my roof for much longer, but I am still your father, and you will treat me with respect."

She actually snarled at him. "I treat people with respect when they deserve it."

And then she did something no one was expecting. She spat at him, and watched with great satisfaction as it splattered onto his brow like a patch of scar tissue.

Robert didn't look anything more than irritated by her show of defiance. Isabelle suddenly realised that his lack of emotion or reaction to things was one of the things she'd always hated about him. Very slowly, he reached up to wipe away the saliva on his forehead. He took a deep breath and Isabelle rolled her eyes; he was about to begin one of his lectures.

"Contrary to what you seem to believe," he began in a superior tone. "I _do_ love you children, as disobedient and rebellious as you often prove to be. I have every right to visit Maxwell, and a hormonal teenage girl isn't going to stop me."

Isabelle just stood there, dumbstruck. When he made a move to walk forward, she immediately stepped in his way, but was only rewarded with a faint annoyance passing over his face. She reached out her arm to push him backwards-

"You say you love us?" Came a cool voice behind her. Pivoting on the balls of her feet, Isabelle breathed a sigh of relief as she caught sight of a stony-faced Alec. Her brother had come to her aid.

Robert looked at his son, and seemed to take in the teenager's uncharacteristic resistance. His face grew wary. "Of course I do, Alexander." He responded with impatience, though he still eyed Alec cautiously.

"Would you uphold that statement if I told you that I'm gay, and have had a boyfriend for the past two years without telling you?"

The patriarch stole a sharp gasp. Isabelle scrutinised her father mercilessly as he began to fidget.

They all knew well what Robert's views were. He'd grown up in a superstitious household, and many of his beliefs were strictly homophobic.

"I-" he began, but a voice from behind him cut him off.

"Leave, Robert." Maryse said coldly from where she had just walked through the door. You've made your views on this family all too clear."

With a bitter glance at his previous family members glaring at him, Robert strode off. Isabelle hoped she'd never see him again.

Maryse turned her attention to Alec, who started to fidget. "Is it true?" Her voice was soft.

Alec nodded.

With a small cry his mother flung her arms around her son muttering unintelligible things in his ear that appeared to make Alec smile.

Isabelle felt tears of relief prick her eyes. She had released some secrets, even if she had caused a relationship to crash and burn.

* * *

Sebastian, now carrying Jocelyn, had left Clary to stumble along by herself. He stopped at intervals to check she was still following in their trek to the door.

Clary felt her eyelids starting to droop now. The flames had turned the air to that of an oven and she could just feel the water starting to boil in her tear ducts - or maybe she was crying? - and sweat hugged long strands of scarlet hair together and glued them to her scalp. Her breathing came in ragged pants, her heart thumping in time to the flickering flames in a desperate attempt to spread oxygen that wasn't there. She paused briefly to lean against a wall, before a burning beam collapsed nearby, the fear and shock spurring her into action.

Up ahead she could see her brother, his skin gleaming with perspiration, cautiously navigating the debris-scattered floor. He glanced back at her and she was struck by how his dark eyes reflected the angry flames to create two polished circles of amber. _Similar to Jace's_ , she thought.

"Clary!" She saw him mouth the words, but she couldn't seem to hear him. "Come on!"

She came, to the best of her ability, tripping over fallen beams and staggering due to her own clumsiness. He'd reached the door to the stairwell and was ducking through it, careful not to bash Jocelyn's head on the doorframe.

Clary made to follow, but a spark leaped onto the wooden frame and set it alight. She sucked in a harsh breath.

That moment of shock was all the ember needed to roar into a full out flame consuming the wooden door. She stopped and stared.

"Come on!" Sebastian yelled, sounding more terrified than she was.

Clary ran forward, but she'd hesitated too long. The frame came crashing down and blocked to doorway with flaming debris. She jumped back with a scream.

It was impassable.

She met her brother's eyes, an eerie calm settling over her. "Go." Her voice sounded distant. "Save Mum. I'll take the old servants' stairs."

Sebastian looked reluctant but obliged. Turning tail and sprinting his way out of there.

He hadn't noticed what Clary had: That the servants' stairs were also blocked.

In a fit of desperation, she ran into the nearest room and hoisted herself up onto the window ledge. She was getting dizzy from the heat and lack of hydration. Through her blurred vision, she noted that the floor she was on was quite low. If she was lucky, she could probably jump from the window and land safely, provided she hit the soft grass. To do so, she'd need to jump a few metres forwards.

She took a deep breath, and leapt. The damp dressing gown was torn away from around her shoulders, leaving hers wet torso bare and exposed.

For a few blissful seconds she felt nothing. She couldn't tell whether she was falling or flying, breathing in or out, or hot or cold.

Then she hit the ground.

A loud _crack_ resonated from her ankle and she screamed at the mini explosion in her foot. Somewhere, in the furthest, darkest part of her mind, she registered that she must have missed the grass and landed on the concrete path.

The pain coupled with the stress and dizziness she'd already possessed was too much. Before she embraced the abyss, she dimly felt two strong arms picking her arm and two eyes, so shadowed and flame-filled that she couldn't determine the colour.

* * *

 **Review? Can we reach 200?**


	24. Waking Up From A Fantasy

**So, I had the story planned up to a certain point, and we've almost reached that point. And from then onwards, everything is vague. So just a heads up if the storyline gets quite confusing or the updates are really slow.**

 **The quote used later in the chapter is from Hamlet.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own TMI**

* * *

 _Chapter song:_

 _Where Do We Go From Here by Ruelle_

Clary's head felt cool, and she shivered slightly as drops of cold water clung to the ginger curls at the nape of her neck. Pain pulsed through her right ankle. Her eyelids were still unresponsive despite her begging them to open, and her thoughts were fuzzy. Dreams she wasn't sure were day-or night-dreams shimmered behind her retinas, vivid despite the fact the only colours present were orange, red and violet. She felt her lips flutter slightly as she sighed, and scrunched up her eyes against the light that was slowing prising them open.

She groaned in protest, and shot upwards with an energy she didn't have when she heard someone chuckle nearby.

She peeled her eyes open fully to reveal she was lying in a narrow bed with white sheets that was shoved up against a wall. The wall, as far as she could tell, had a multi-coloured mural painted on it, but at the angle she was facing she couldn't tell what the image was. Opposite her was an open door, through which she could make out a sink with two taps and the corner of a bright shower curtain patterned with blue and green waves. The door was maybe ten metres to her left; a rosewood wardrobe and matching dresser stood against perpendicular walls to her right; and a star-shaped lampshade with holes in the shape if crescent moons punched in it swung merrily above, casting a yellowish light over the scene.

She took in, with reluctance, the old chair stitched with embroidered daylily's and the teenager sitting in it, eyeing her cautiously.

"So," Jon said, probably to break the tense silence. "You're awake."

She didn't respond; just kept glaring at him.

He fiddled with the cuffs of his blue and white checked shirt. "Say something, Clary."

She left him a few seconds to squirm in, before asking. "Who set the fire?"

The way he couldn't hold prolonged eye contact with her gave her the answer wrapped up in a silver ribbon.

She took a deep breath to stay calm, more for her own benefit than Jonathan's. She didn't think she was in any fit state to be throttling anyone. "You couldn't have made the situation any more incriminating, could you?" She continued. "' _Don't blame me when everything goes up in flames'_. How literal can something be?"

Jon sighed, and ran his hands through his hair. "I don't suppose 'I'm sorry' will cut it?"

"No," she answered shrewdly. "Because you're not."

He nodded, looking slightly perturbed that she could see through him so easily. "I'm not. It was a necessary step towards defeating Valentine. We've uprooted him, and forced him to migrate to a different location. He also probably lost quite a few of his notes. No one died. It was a success."

She scrutinised him, unimpressed. "And I suppose it's a success that you now have no idea where he is, and destroyed quite a few notes you could study to gain a reading on his plans."

The colour drained out of Jon's already pale face. "I never thought of it that way."

Nevertheless, she continued relentlessly. "No one _died_ ; a few people were just injured. You risked burning your own mother alive. You risked burning your own siblings alive. You risked revealing yourself to your enemy." She paused for breath before she resumed in a sarcastic tone. "Oh, it was an _absolute_ success."

By the end Jon had been clutching at his temples with his eyes screwed shut. "Okay, okay!" He yelled with more force than necessary. "I admit: it wasn't the best idea!"

"It was reckless." She stated flatly.

"Yes. I-" He stopped suddenly, to peer at his sister. " _Reckless_? Says the girl who-"

"Don't give me this lecture again." She grumbled. "I've already had it from you _and_ Sebastian."

That got his attention. "Sebastian already said this to you?"

She nodded. "Yes." A horror dawned on her, and she didn't notice the hurt expression cloud his face. "He probably thinks I'm dead. I need to-"

Before she could finish, the door swung open to reveal a tall, very sparkly man. He had brown skin, gleaming amber-green eyes, and short black hair gelled up into dozens of fortified, sharp spikes, each and every one tipped with a different shade of blue glitter. Some were pale blue, some dark. Clary had never known there were that many shades of one colour.

He beamed at Clary's astounded expression. "Our Sleeping Beauty awakes!" He cried cheerfully, swinging his arms. He looked very nice when he smiled; the corners of his mouth going up lopsidedly, the skin around his eyes crinkling in neat folds.

Still in shock from his appearance, Clary swung her legs over the edge of the bed and attempted to stand. Her mother had hammered manners into her.

But as soon as any weight hit her right ankle - the injured one - she crumpled with a small cry of pain. Jon rushed forwards and caught her. She tried to ignore the wound on his features when she flinched away from him.

The glittery man whistled. "Try not to walk around too much, biscuit. You managed to get yourself a pretty nasty sprain. It'll take a while to heal."

Clary didn't resist as Jon gently lowered and tucked her back into bed, but when he started fussing she gave him a look that conveyed her message clear as day: _back off_.

"Clary, this is Magnus." Jon said hesitantly, seemingly torn between leaving her alone per request or making sure she was okay. "Magnus, Clary."

"Clarissa Morgenstern," Magnus said. Clary had never liked her name, and every time she heard it in full it was generally used with a tone of anger or hatred. But Magnus was nothing but cheerful. "I've known you since you were a little girl in orange pigtails, trying to eat crayons without your mother finding out."

Clary, despite not recognising him, remembered that time of her life in surprising detail, and flushed furiously. "I don't remember you," she admitted candidly.

He considered this. "It was before I'd discovered glitter. It's understandable that you wouldn't recognise me." He laughed, and Clary laughed with him. His laughter was infectious.

Jon seemed a mix between irritated and amused as he pulled out two grey crutches. "Here, Clary." He said, propping them up against the side of the bed. "You can use them when you're ready to try and walk."

She nodded her head in acknowledgement, but didn't turn to meet the gaze she knew was boring a hole in her back.

"You should probably sleep," her brother continued. "You were out cold for twelve hours, but your body doesn't count that as rest."

This time she did twist round to look at him, dead set on vetoing that ridiculous idea. "That's ridiculous," she insisted, stamping down the twinge of pain that shot up her leg. By Jon's face she could tell she didn't do a very good job of hiding it. "I don't need-" She was cut off by her own yawn.

Jon's smile held genuine fondness. "Sleep, Clary. I mean it."

So she lay down, grumbling as she did so, and began dreaming almost immediately.

* * *

Jon smiled to himself as Clary's breathing evened out. Even after all these years he could still tell when Clary was tired before she could.

"Ah," Magnus intoned from across the room. " _To die; to sleep, to sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub: for in that sleep of death what dreams may come._ "

"Magnus," Jon said mildly. "Quit quoting Shakespeare whilst my sister's sleeping."

Magnus grinned. "You look strange, you know." He replied. "With that gentle expression on your face. Don't tell me the great Jonathan Morgenstern is going soft!"

"Magnus," Jon repeated, but now his teeth were gritted. "Shut up."

* * *

Later that day, Max was free to be released. When they'd all reached the house, Jace holding onto his little brother like he might run away, Max asked the dreaded question. "Where's Dad?"

Maryse, who'd just fitted the key into the lock, jolted. Recovering herself, she twisted the scrap of metal and jerked the door open with uncharacteristic forcefulness. She swivelled her head to look at the teenagers, but when it became clear none of them were going to answer, she resigned herself.

"Your father won't be living with us anymore." She said cautiously as she walked into the house. Her motions had changed; she now acted more like a temporary guest than an owner.

Max frowned unhappily. "Why not?"

This time, Isabelle handled it. "He did something very bad," she told him delicately. Jace almost felt sorry for the kid, who was being tiptoed around like a tower of paper cards.

But the little boy only looked more confused. "So? You always tell me to forgive and forget."

"Some things you can't forgive _or_ forget, Max," Alec butted in curtly, shouldering past Jace to follow his brother through the door. "Some things can't be undone."

Max didn't say anything more on the subject, although Jace did catch a glimpse of a mournful expression lining his face.

The bespectacled boy piped up again as soon as they stepped into the living room. All of Maryse's pictures that had lined the walls and lent the place an airy feel was gone, leaving squares of plaster lighter than the material around it. The television was gone, and the table it had stood on in the process of being dismantled. Lots of the furniture was draped in dusty white sheets, and the carpet - with it's pattern of Aboriginal artwork - was rolled up and propped against curtain-stripped window. "What's happening here?" Max asked in horror, gazing wistfully at the corner where the television once was.

"We're moving," his mother responded, picking up a box that screamed _tripping hazard!_ from where it lay in the doorway. She carried it into the kitchen and her children, with nothing better to do, followed.

This room was no different. The cupboards swung open, starkly empty. The fridge was now devoid of all the thousand letters and postcards pinned to it with brightly coloured magnets, and shone like a bleak painful reminder of what had been. Half the chairs at the table were gone.

"So, have you found a new home, yet?" Jace inquired, jumping up to sit on the table, swinging his legs. The black-haired woman eyed him wearily, like she wanted to reprimand him but was too tired to do so.

"No," she admitted, putting the cardboard box down on the counter with a thud and reaching up to rub her eyes, which, Jace noted, were heavily shadowed. "But I want to make sure that as soon as we _do_ find a place, we're ready to move out of this place at a moment's notice." She raised a hand to her forehead and steady herself with the other. "Take Max up to his room to pack everything he'd like to take with him, tha he won't need for another month or so. Try and make sure he realises what I mean by _need_. We don't want to be turning around because he left his poster stuck to the wall."

Jace nodded, and reached out a hand to the kid. He looked up at him with haunted grey eyes. "It's so _empty_ ," he whispered as Jace led him out of the room.

"I know," was Jace's reply. "I know."

* * *

 **Review?**


	25. Family & Friends

**I'm back! As I said, the updates will be erratic.**

 **Thanks to Mrs Belikova 18, and Bethany. Your reviews were a large reason I decided to get on with writing this.**

* * *

The vague sound of a door slamming shut.

"Is this really Clary, Jon? It doesn't look like her."

A huff of irritation. " _Yes,_ Maia. This is Clary."

"Are you sure? I thought her hair was more orangey than that. And it would really suck if we got the wrong person."

"Would a complete stranger smack me in the face?"

"Maybe if she thought you were molesting her."

A poorly smothered guffaw.

Blearily, Clary cracked open one eye. Her vision was a blur of various shades of white. She dimly registered a soft mattress digging into her right side and a stiff pillowcase tickling her ear. After a moment her pupils dilated and through the remnants of sleep clinging to her eyelashes like stubborn spiders she spotted Magnus sitting directly across the room from her, sporting a grin as his striking eyes darted between the two people playing verbal tennis. They flashed to meet Clary's groggy ones and his grin spread even further, until it looked like it'd been replaced by the moon.

"Why on Earth would I do that?"

"You do odd things sometimes."

Jon took an annoyed step back until his legs were in Clary's line of sight.

"Anyway, are you sure this is her?"

Through gritted teeth: "I'm absolutely, positively certain. Now stop talking before you wake her up."

Magnus piped up. "A bit too late for that, Jon."

Caught of guard, the blonde leaped back slightly to see her peering up at him with vague amusement veiling her harlequin eyes. She offered a smile, a shadow of one she could have mustered once upon a time, but still laced with enough laughter to make him stick his tongue out at her.

Still smirking to herself, she dragged herself up onto wobbly elbows, shooting Jon a look telling him to stay away even as she half-collapsed back amongst the sheets. With a clenched jaw, she forced her limbs to support herself, and met the gaze of the girl still hovering in the doorway despite being in the room for a solid ten minutes.

She had dark brown skin, and a vaguely pretty face, half of which was obscured behind a tumble of black braid hanging from the corner of her forehead and formed a sheet down to the base of her neck. She wore ripped jeans, and a brightly coloured t-shirt which highlighted her wide curves as they flared from her small waist. She wore no shoes or socks. She looked to be about Clary's age.

Maia spread her long arms in a gesture that looked like she either wanted a hug, or was presenting something. The gesture sparked a long-dormant memory in Clary: one of a chubby toddler of the same bright eyes as this teenager, and a bossy attitude as they pranced in rings. "Clary!" Maia called, without a hint of doubt. _Like always_. A hint of a smile slipped across her face. _Maia._

Suddenly the brunette halted. "Wait, do you remember me?"

Clary only shrugged in response, returning to that blasé air she held when she didn't know how to react in a situation. "I think so, Maia."

The girl beamed. "I knew you would," she said, shooting a smug look at the two other people in the room. Both boys rolled their eyes. She approached Clary's bed with care, as though she understood that a sickroom was not the best place to freak out. Cautiously, she perched on the edge of the mattress.

Something different from the Maia she'd known: this one seemed at loss for words.

"Where did you go?" She said at last, surveying Clary with those strange amber eyes of hers. "You just... disappeared one day."

Clary shrugged again, loathe to admit that she had no idea. "I don't know; I was only three." She cast her gaze at Jon. "Do you know?" He shook his head. She turned back to Maia, the conversation deflating like a pricked balloon. "Are you still in contact with Simon?"

Maia nodded fervently, glad for the subject change. "Yeah. We've got another friend, Isabelle, who Simon has a _major_ crush on. I pretended to date him for a while to make her jealous. It worked a bit too well..." She trailed off, seemingly uncertain, but Clary leaned forward in curiosity. Her expression said she wanted to hear more, and her old friend acquiesced.

Once the story was done, Clary sat back on her elbows to mull it over.

"I can see where Simon is coming from," she mused thoughtfully, "but Isabelle's reaction seems justified as well." Maia nodded.

"I know. It's agony having to pick sides. I don't know what to do at this point." Maia stared at the mural on the wall, which, Clary could now see, was a view of a sunset over the sea. "What should I do?"

Clary frowned, flicking her eyes around the room. Jon and Magnus had left them to their catch up as per request - although she had a funny feeling Jon was just outside the door ready if anything happened. "You're asking the girl who lived with minimal human contact for years for social advice?"

Maia had nothing to respond to that.

* * *

Luke smiled warmly, startlingly clear eyes sparkling at her over rectangular glasses. His familiar warmth only made her more uncomfortable; she wasn't used to it.

She swallowed surreptitiously - or so she hoped - and hesitantly met his gaze. The metre between them was occupied by a simple wooden table that resembled one you might eat at, but it might as well have been mountainous steel walls. She couldn't keep her fingers still, and she felt Luke's gentle but puzzled gaze brush over her freckled knuckles. She withdraw her hand hastily, nestling it in her lap.

Luke took a long breath. "I presume you want an explanation?"

She stomped down the scathing retort that rose to her lips. Just because Luke gave off such a calming aura that she felt no desire to strangle him, didn't mean she wasn't still angry.

Why was she angry? A lot of reasons, she answered herself. She was angry because he'd convinced Jon to leave her. She was angry because he'd left her, Sebastian, and her mother to fend for themselves. She was angry because he'd actually _condoned_ the act of arson that had turned her only home into smouldering dust.

She was angry.

Or at least that was what she was trying to tell herself. She felt mainly dead, like that fire had burned away all her passion.

Luke steepled his fingers and looked at her with his grave, solemn eyes. That look should have been condescending, but somehow it wasn't, and she couldn't help but hate that.

 _She was hating a lot of this these days._

"As you know, I met your parents, and various other couples - the Lightwoods, the Herondales - in school. We were good friends, and we were all saddened when Jocelyn and Valentine disappeared, as well as worried for your and your brothers' wellbeing."

Her fingers started tapping again. She couldn't help it. His formal tone set her on edge.

"I kept in touch with the Lightwoods and Herondales as they joined the Clave, and began fighting the Circle of Raziel, without any of us realising that the leader of these assassins was your father."

"Would it have mattered?" Her voice came out hoarse. At his questioning look, she elaborated. "Would it have mattered that you knew your old friend was the enemy, if you truly believed you were fighting for a good cause?"

Luke shook his head. "Honestly, Clary, no. Valentine is no longer the Valentine I knew. It would have caused only harm if he'd been allowed to continue down his path of murder without resistance."

"But the Clave was corrupt." She pointed out. "They offered no resistance."

"I know." In that moment, Luke looked incredibly old; older than he had any right or reason to be. "I realised this years ago, and tried to warn the Lightwoods - the Herondales having been murdered by Valentine after they realised who was behind the assassinations - but neither Maryse nor Robert listened to me. I then contacted your brother-" Clary's hands, situated in her lap, curled into fists, "-and he told me all he knew and agreed to help. Your father had been training him to take over the Circle, and what he did know, he was disgusted by. We faked his death so no one would be suspicious and he began to spy on the manor."

"Wouldn't he have been a more effective spy on the inside, where he's practically spoon-fed the information, as opposed to outside?"

Luke furrowed his brows. "You have a good point." He surveyed her with something grudgingly close to respect. "And Jon told me what you said about the plan for the fire. You have a mind for strategy. I wish you'd been here earlier so we would have been able to rethink plans that turned out to be mistakes."

The hands that had been clenching the crisp fabric of the shirt she'd been loaned loosened their death grip. "I'm not a strategist; I'm a cynic."

Luke smiled. "Either way."

She took a deep breath. "So who is 'we'?" She asked. "You've been carrying out all these plans like you're a group similar to the Clave."

He folded his hands. "We are. We call ourselves Downworlders."

"And I suppose that the Clave just doesn't know there's another corporation with permission from the government, actively fighting against the enemy they're secretly helping?"

He winced. "Bribes can get you anywhere."

She pursed her lips.

"All legality aside," he insisted, "I might know a place for you to hide from your father and just be safe for the time being, at least, if you wanted to."

She cocked her head. "I'm listening." She drawled.

Her fingers started tapping again.

* * *

Isabelle scowled as she checked the caller ID on her phone. It was Maia.

Again.

She tossed it carelessly behind her. It hit the bed, and bounced with a satisfying _boing._ From where it was lying screen down on the mattress, it began to play the voicemail left, which was the last thing she wanted. She knew perfectly well that if she heard it, she'd concede.

She lunged for it, but paused halfway. That wasn't Maia's voice.

"Hi, Isabelle. As you've probably guessed, this isn't Maia. I'm Clary; I don't know if Jace has mentioned me or not. Anyway, I heard you and your family were in need of a home to live in, and..."

* * *

 **Again, sorry for the brief absence.**

 **Review?**


	26. Irritating Strangers Take You Away

**I'm sort of trying to round off the story a bit... It will be finished soon, even if there are many things that haven't been explained or covered yet, just because I've planned out very little of what comes next. So I'm trying to come to a satisfactory "ending" without covering everything unanswered as that would take just as long as it's been so far... Like the ending of the first book in a series.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own The Mortal Instruments.**

* * *

The house Luke had offered to Clary turned out to be a cross between a large farmhouse and a manor in the countryside, far removed from the nearest village. When they'd pulled up in his battered car in the driveway of the house - the gardens were _enormous_ ; she hadn't expected that Luke's day job as a bookkeeper would be able to buy this place for him - she'd sullenly dumped her stuff (mainly oversized clothes loaned to her by Maia) on the pavestones at the base of the slate steps leading to the flimsy front door, and jabbed the key into the lock.

Now she wandered through the corridors, moving significantly slower because of her crutch. The rusty key had left a jagged red imprint in her sweaty palm with how tight she was gripping it but she ignored it. When she heard Luke's heavy footsteps behind her she turned awkwardly, with a series of hops, her grip tightening on the key, to face her mother's best friend. Her resolution hardened in her heart.

He wore a cautious look, as though he knew what she was about to say and didn't want to hear it. But there was no way she could - or would - ask Jonathan, and Luke was the most likely candidate for knowing the answer. This was the last chance she had to ask him; she wasn't sure if any of his eavesdropping colleagues would take kindly to her inquiry.

"Luke," she said gently. The gentleness was as deceptive as the constant sunshine that caused a storm to brew. "You said I was the only one Jon brought back. So what happened to Sebastian and Mum?"

He swallowed and surreptitiously began to wring his hands. Had he not expected her to ask this question? Finally, he sighed. "We don't know, Clary. Jon wasn't the only one there that night, but the others who were watching the front and back doors didn't see anyone come out. There's no way they could've escaped."

For an instant, the world distorted, like some kindly deity had taken pity on her and was trying to twist reality into a more favourable shape. She became hyperaware of the sunlight raining in through the open window on her right and suddenly noticed that the lampshade adorning the main light bulb was rotating, presumably from the wind. Luke's face was thrown into sharp relief, all the weathered angles and plains casting thick shadows over his right cheek and his lips were moving but she couldn't hear him speaking. The floor connected with her palms, her crutches cluttering to the ground and she dimly registered that they were stinging, but then her eyes had slid shut and the world was blotted out in black and red. Her sprained angle began aching again in it's cast.

Luke shook her shoulder and she sprung upwards on one foot, almost bashing his chin with the crown of her head. "He must've waited for me." Her words rushed out in an unintelligible jumble as water rushes from behind a broken dam. "I told him I'd take the servants stairs but I lied because they were blocked and I had to jump out a window but he didn't know that and he must have waited at the base of the servants stairs for me to come out but he waited too long and now he's gone." The sharp-edged pieces, like fragments of a shattered mirror, were clicking together seamlessly in her mind to create a picture so hideous she couldn't bear to look at it. "He's gone because of me." She said slowly, the awful, plausible _truth_ of them rushing out to grab her like Valkyries ready to drag her to her afterlife.

"No-" Luke's weak protest was cut off by Clary turning round and marching as well as she could further down the corridors. The key was clutched so tightly in her hand it had split the skin, crimson beads of blood oozing from under her fingernails, leaving a dot-to-dot trail that tracked her as she walked.

All Luke knew how to do was watch her go.

* * *

"Who the hell are you?" Isabelle interrogated the teenager standing on her doorstep, arms folded across her chest. He was vaguely attractive, she had to admit, with chin-length white-blonde hair and his bottle green eyes, like glass. But that didn't explain why he was standing on her doorstep like he owned it, especially considering she'd never met him before in her life.

He ignored her question, though his easy, smug smile told her he'd heard it perfectly well. Her scowl deepened until she was sure it would carve permanent fissures in her skin.

The boy ducked past her into the sheltered corridor of her house.

She practically exploded. "What do you think you're doing, asshole? Who do you think you are?!" She screeched, throwing her hands up and waving them about like a frightened parrot. Her voice sounded a bit like that as well.

He regarded her with calm amusement. "I believe that's the second time you've asked a variation of that question." He said politely. She scoffed. Like his actions in the timeframe since she'd met him had been _polite_.

"You think? What gives you the right to come in here, ignore me, and-"

"Jonathan, quit winding her up," came Jace's tired voice. She whirled around to see him leaning against the banisters on the stairs - _never_ a good idea - and glaring at both of them with half-lidded eyes. "There's no point in beating about the bush."

 _Jonathan_ grinned, and shrugged.

Isabelle took a deep breath. "So who are you, and what are you doing here?" She said in a tight voice.

It was Jace who answered. "This is Jon, Clary's brother."

She raised one raven black eyebrow. "Oh?" This was getting twisted.

Jon nodded fervently. "I was told that you are in a bit of a housing crisis, and that my sister offered you her place of current residence whilst you sort things out." His easy smile faltered. "Probably a good thing. Bad idea for her to live in that big house all alone, especially after the traumatising stuff that has occurred recently."

Isabelle slowly moved her head in an uncertain nod. "I know; I was the one she contacted, as this guy lacks the social skills to give a girl his number _before_ he kissed her-"

A green-eyed gaze was suddenly swivelled onto Jace. " _You kissed my sister?_ "

"Can we have this conversation later?" A tinge of desperateness.

Isabelle continued, regardless of her companions' idiocy. "-but I've heard nothing about you. Ever. Like, at. All. So kindly explain, what you are doing here, and to quote my brother with the lack of social skills: _quit beating about the bush_."

Jon sighed finally, then tripped over one of the boxes Maryse had packed and placed in the door to the kitchen. From the floor, he regarded the incriminated box laughingly, like not even a vaguely painful tumble such as that one could kill his cheerful disposition. Isabelle envied him.

"Luke said to me specifically," he acquiesced, slightly breathless from the fall, "to one: help you get packed, and two: take you to the new place. Also to pass on his greetings to your mother." He looked around at the box-filled kitchen with a faint bemusement, then back up at them. "Well," he continued delicately. "I guess I can scrap step one."

* * *

With much bickering, and many suppressed urges from Jonathan to scream out loud, he'd shoved all the Lightwoods into the back of the car loaned to him by Luke and only had to deal with the especially annoying one who'd lodged himself in the front with him. All things considered, Jace was starting to irritate Jon a bit.

Although maybe that was karma: he irritates people, so an irritating person is shoved unceremoniously into his sister's life, therefore he becomes obligated to accept him into his.

To be honest, Jon didn't really mind most of the Lightwoods. If he ignored Maryse's cool hostility, Max's surely unhealthy obsession with whatever it was he was reading, Isabelle's bluntness, Alec's quietness, and Jace altogether, he almost liked them.

Unfortunately, Jace was a tough thing to ignore, especially considering he was currently talking his ear off with snide comments. He blocked them out.

They were coming up the drive now. Jon carefully brought the car to a halt, feeling slightly scrutinised in the shadow of the house. _How_ Luke had managed to hold onto this, was beyond him.

The man himself was sitting cross-legged on the steps, in a bizarrely casual-yet-stiff manner. Jon opened the doors and let the Lightwoods tumble out with their mouths stretched in awestruck circles, before jogging over to greet Luke. he was stopped by the look the blue-eyed man sent his way, and with another wave of his hand he had Jonathan marching back to the Lightwoods in order to be _civil._

"Welcome to your temporary home," he drawled. "This house is belongs to-"

"Lucian," Maryse interrupted him, walking toward him. He hadn't noticed before, but she was taller than him. "This house was owned by Amatis Graymark before she passed away, and it was inherited by her younger brother." A quick nod confirmed what she'd said.

"Come in," Jon ushered. "You can grab your stuff later. Go and explore, 'cause I'm pretty sure no one living knows enough about this place to give you a tour." Alec Lightwood slanted him a slightly disturbed look, and Jonathan restrained himself from making a face in return.

Max was long gone, disappearing into the looping halls and curling banisters of the place, Isabelle and Jace running after him. Alec joined his mother at her more leisurely pace as she took in he whole strangeness of the situation. That left Jon with Luke.

"I already put your stuff in the room next to Clary's," the older man told him.

"What?"

"You're staying here." Luke replied passively. His spectacles sparked in the sunlight. "Clary needs some reasonably stable ground in her life right now, and you can't argue with blood. You're staying here."

"She hates me."

"If you like." Totally beyond all comprehension, Luke gave a small smile. "But you're staying here."

His tone brooked no argument.

* * *

 **I'm sorry if it's awful.**

 **Review?**

 **(That includes you, Tamsin, if you're reading this).**


	27. Disturbances In the Dust

**I'm so sorry for the long wait, but I'm just trying to find a suitable ending for this. I'll do my best to wrap up all the relationship drama at the very least.**

* * *

Jace's world now apparently consisted of long corridors, high archways, and narrow glassless windows. As he wandered, he wondered when this place had been built, how old it was, what history it had. His mind rambled through his different thoughts, though in some distant part of his brain he knew he was just doing his utmost to not think about the petite redhead he was currently on exceptionally awkward terms with behind one of these doors.

The corridor he was meandering down took a sharp right turn to look down a long spiral staircase. The stairwell was a circular, enclosed room that was punctuated with slits to let the light in every so often. It reminded Jace of the time he'd been to visit an old, vaguely intact castle as a kid, and climbing the stairs in the tower.

This place had a tower. Or at least a turret. Why was he not surprised?

He noticed with a shrewd eye that the dust was thicker towards the edges of the carpeted steps, and glinted in little dust flurries where the light caught it, like someone had already been up here. Within the last few months, that was.

Capitulating to his curiosity, he began climbing, wanting to see what was at the top (and to gloat to Max that he was in the tower first). Rather than heeding his habit of taking stairs two at a time, he carefully and slowly placed one foot on each rise, conscious of the treacherous and downright dangerous slant of the stone.

He climbed for a few moments, completing several turns, before he came upon the first door. Seeing the steps continue upwards (and the strange dust disfigurations continue upwards), he ignored it and pressed on.

He passed about three more doors before he reached the point where the dust disturbances stopped. The stairs kept going, but Jace made a split second decision - the top, or the unknown resident? - and ducked into the hallway beyond.

It was shorter than the never ending ones he'd had to walk through downstairs. There were three doors spread about six metres apart before the corridor ended in an blunt, undecorated stone wall. Jace tentatively twisted the handle on the first one, and ducked inside, unable to suppress a sneeze when his movements raised a small tornado of dust bunnies. Eyes watering, he took in the dark room, and he knew instinctively that it hadn't been touched in generations. He ducked out again.

The second door led to a room that - whilst admittedly still dusty; it needed a clean up - was clearly occupied. A bag was dumped unceremoniously on the bed, which had sheets patterned with pentagrams, and triangles, and other colourfully cheery geometric shapes. The small bedside table was stacked with books, but from the doorway Jace couldn't read the titles on the spines. The wardrobe hung open and the corner of a jacket peeking out. Jace felt his heart do a sort of half-flip; this was clearly Clary's room. He closed the door, suddenly uncomfortable.

Mind elsewhere, he strode the last few metres to the last room and threw that door open, expecting it to be much like the first. What he saw was not the thing he expected.

Clary - for indeed it was Clary, with her hair unbound and swinging around her face in a knotted curtain of fire - shrieked loud enough for the people all of those floors below them to hear, and scrambled to throw on a baggy t-shirt, for indeed, her top half had only been covered by her bra when he barged in. Jace's eyes widened to the size of the coins they resembled, he felt a rush of heat spread up his neck, and he staggered back, looking away to preserve her modesty.

"What are you doing?!" Clary yelled at him, now with the clearly too big t-shirt on, but nevertheless trying to hide herself by crossing her arms over her torso. "You don't just barge in whilst a girl's changing!"

"I didn't know you'd be in here!" Jace protested wildly, violently gesturing to the door. "I thought your room was the one next door! I would have knocked otherwise! I'm just exploring!"

"The one next door is Jon's." She said, looking sceptical. "And I saw your car pull up outside," she gestured to the window, which had an excellent view of the front lawn. "There's no way you had time to explore all the rooms led to in this _tower_ let alone the entire house. Hell, I've been here since this morning and I'm barely half done."

He scratched the back of his neck. "I might have also been subconsciously looking for you."

She flushed a brilliant crimson then, almost camouflaging with her hair. "Oh." Came the articulate reply. She fiddled with the too long sleeves of the shirt. He must have been staring obtrusively, because she glanced down, then uttered, "Oh, these are Maia's clothes. I lost most of mine in the fire."

"The _fire_?" He asked. "What fire? Since when were you in a fire?" Another thought struck him like a hammer to the anvil. "And Maia as in Isabelle's Maia?" He added.

Clary nodded, raising her eyebrows like it was obvious. "How do you think I got hold of her phone to call Isabelle? I certainly didn't look up your sister's number in the phone book."

"People still do that?" Jace said, genuinely surprised. Clary smiled that shy but adorable smile of hers, and he found himself smiling back, before he noticed her evasion tactics. "You still haven't told me what you meant by 'fire'." He pointed out, tilting his head and surveying her mock sternly.

She sighed, apparently resigned to her fate. "Someone - and by someone, I mean Jonathan - set fire to the manor whilst I, Sebastian, and Valentine were in it."

She saw the implications of this hit Jace as his posture tightened and his hands clenched into fists. "Was he _trying_ to kill you?" He raged. "What kind of brother does that?"

Clary shook her head and Jace noticed with a start that she was crying, glittering tears dripping down her face. He was moving before he realised what he was doing and flung his arms around her shaking frame. She buried her face in his chest and he realised he didn't care that she would stain his shirt when Clary replied, in a surprisingly steady voice. "I don't think he was trying to kill me, but he certainly succeeded with Sebastian and Mum."

Jace drew in a startled breath, but asked cautiously. "What about Valentine?"

He felt her shake her head. "He got out before I did, and left us in there to die." He felt the second flood of tears run down his chest. He only tightened his grip on her. "Sebastian's dead," she whispered, and the tears ceased. His heart ached for her; he'd hated Sebastian, but he knew Clary had loved him dearly. "And it's my fault."

The words shocked him to the core. He pulled back so he could look Clary in the eye but kept his large hands on her small shoulders as he studied her face. "What?"

She was serious. Her pale face was tearstained, and her lashes spiky with dampness, but her actual eyes were dry and her face displayed a grim certainty that chilled his blood. "It was my fault," she repeated, and he almost didn't want to hear the explanation but she gave it anyway, the words spilling out of her just as fast and biting as her tears. "It was my fault. We were coming out, and he went ahead carrying Mum, and then the doorway collapsed before I could follow. I couldn't get through. I told him to run, that I could get out through the old servant's stairwell and he ran, but I knew it was blocked up; I'd seen it as we ran past. So he went, and I jumped out of the nearest window."

Jace sucked in a breath, strangely impressed by her daring, but she paid him no heed, rambling on as she stared at something to his right that only she could see.

"When I hit the ground I fell unconscious, but I think Jon found me and brought me here." She swallowed, and cast her eyes down. "Luke told me Sebastian and Mum never made it out. He must have waited for me at the bottom, staying in the line of fire because he wouldn't leave me whilst I was perfectly safe, and in the end it was too late for him to get out."

Jace took a strangled breath and sat down on the make, his hands on her shoulders forcing her to sit with him. "Clary," he said quietly and calmly, watching the tears in her eyes well up and spill over again. "I don't know if it was your fault or not, though I'm inclined to think the latter," he began, and registered Clary's flinch. "But I know this. You know I never liked Sebastian, but I saw him with you, and you with him. He loved you. Whether it was your fault he died or not, he wouldn't want you to beat yourself up about it. He wouldn't want you to be unhappy."

He felt Clary's breathing even out, steady, and smiled at her calmer state. He knew he'd said the right thing.

He also suspected it was no coincidence that the room she'd chosen was on the highest floor, and the furthest from the stairwell. It was the most removed.

After another minute of comfortable silence, Clary stood up. His eyes immediately zoomed in on the uneven weight distribution as she limped slightly. "What happened to your foot?"

She smiled a little, shyly. "You don't think I could jump out of a window and survive wholly intact, do you?" She quipped. He was not amused, and she sighed. "I sprained my ankle," she admitted quietly. "Jon told me to use the crutches he gave me, but I think that's a bit excessive."

"Fair enough," Jace said, tapping his chin.

She was surveying him thoughtfully for a moment, before she took a step closer to him, her knees no longer wobbling. He tilted his head and graced her with a look of inquiry.

She blushed, but said, "Jace?"

"Mmmm?" He replied, rendered slightly speechless by their proximity. He could have counted every last freckle on her nose. . .

"Can I kiss you?" She asked, eyes crunched with nervousness. He dropped his eyes half shut and answered, without rational thought, with a nod.

It was tentative at first, gentle and loving and kind. But he could feel the longing blaze up in him as he kissed her harder, parting her lips with his own. She moaned softly, and he smiled against her lips.

Then the spell broke and they were pulling away from each other, like magnets that both point North. Clary blushed, fumbling for words with unpracticed fingers, as he spluttered, very smoothly, "Huh?"

She blushed, and looked down so he couldn't see her irises. He found he didn't want that. "I may not necessarily _love_ you yet, Jace," she began to stammer. His heart sank. "But I know for certain that I like you a lot - romantically, I mean - and there is so little I'm certain about now and I'm not sure but I think you might like me back so I'm just asking if-"

"Yes," he said without hesitation. As they looked at each other, he knew she could see his devotion in every line of his face, and that he hadn't mistaken what she was asking for something else, and she hadn't mistaken his answer for something else. "I'd love that."

She smiled brilliantly, and they shared one last chaste peck before Jace pulled back and said, "And this may be a little fast, but now we're living in the same house, I think it might be about time for you to meet my family."

"And you mine," she replied with a tenderness to her expression, as she took his hand and led him out of the room.

* * *

 **I was meant to add another scene at the end, but I think it would work nicely as the next chapter.**

 **What did you think? Was it too sappy? Review!**


	28. Patchwork Sofas

**Disclaimer: I don't own TMI, just the plot and the rest of the story.**

 **So, again, sorry for the long wait. This chapter talks more about Jace and Clary's different family situations, and Clary confronts her own bitter feelings about her own and whatnot. And then there's more big friendly reunions and such. I bust out laughing halfway through because I was planning it all out in my head then realised the song I based this on was playing.**

 **I've decided roughly how long this will go on for, and how to come to a suitable ending. I can't promise that I'll update frequently, but I'll do my best not to leave you hanging for over a month. This will be finished by December though. I promise you that.**

 **Enough rambling. On with the story!**

* * *

Clary felt the confidence she'd obtained in her room fade, and her apprehension grow, as she descended the stairs. She still gripped Jace's hand, and she hissed ever so slightly whenever she put the weight on her injured ankle. The only signal that he'd registered her pain was the minute tightening of his hand on hers, but she squeezed back, silently telling him she was fine.

But just because the throbbing in her ankle was little enough to bear, didn't mean that her heart didn't grow heavier and heavier with each step until it was a dead weight, or that she stopped not to ease the pain, but to face the reality of the people on the floors below, steadily growing closer and closer and closer as they pressed on.

These were Jace's _family._ The word had never meant much to her; she'd admittedly had a fairly idyllic childhood for the first few years of her life, before everything went to Hell in a handbasket. Then Jon had proved to be a backstabbing prick, Sebastian had proved he couldn't step up to fill the absence of their brother, Jocelyn had decided that the two children she had left weren't living for, and Valentine decreed that the daughter he had left paled in comparison to his lost wife and son, and focused on his last heir to the extent of alienating both his remaining children.

Don't get her wrong, she loved her family; there were bonds nothing could erase. And she understood their reactions to an extent. After all, it was a traumatic time, with devastating events piling in. But. . . to abandon your only daughter or sister? To leave her to fend for herself?

The mistake they'd all made was choosing to mourn on their own, and now they were paying the price for it.

It was a short walk, but it felt like miles.

Even Jace seemed to pick up on her sullen mood as they emerged from the stairwell. He cast her a quick, concerned glance that inadvertently sent her pulse hammering and stomach fluttering, but she squashed the feeling. "You alright?"

No, she was beginning to realise. No she wasn't alright; and she never would be again. Because despite herself, she would always be bitter about her family's abandonment of her, and nothing and no one could change that anymore than they could go back in time and make the right decisions. No, not the right decisions; just different ones. Who was she to say what was right?

Even if Jon apologised, and started acting like the brother he once was, she could never truly forget it. She would never truly trust him not to leave her again. But she could move on, she could try to love him without trusting him, because that was all she could hope for, now that Sebastian was gone.

So, after a pregnant pause, she said, "As alright as I'll ever be," and gave Jace a weak smile. He didn't know how true those words were.

From that point on, the walk seemed too short. She was going to meet Jace's adoptive siblings - scratch that, his _siblings_ , point blank - and she had no idea what a normal, healthy sibling relationship from like. Did it involve screaming, like in the books? Overprotective big brothers and rebellious little sisters? Would Max be the baby of the family and treated as such, especially now he'd returned from certain death?

She was going to give herself a headache.

Jace released her hand as they came to the corridor with the room where they'd apparently been told to meet once they'd finished exploring in half an hour. She bit her lip at the loss of reassurance but then he rested the same hand on her back - not quite the small, but not quite between her shoulder blades either - and it stayed there, a steady reminder that he was right next to her, and wasn't going anywhere.

She couldn't describe how much she loved him for that single gesture in that moment.

That one simple, innocent thought was followed by a crashing realisation that had her limbs freezing up and her halting in her tracks, just in front of a door that he was turning into. Jace cast her another worried glance, but Clary's focus was on her whirling thoughts.

She just admitted she loved Jace. Sure, it was in uncertain terms, and it never specified whether she loved him in the friendship way or the romantic way, but the fact remained that she'd admitted to herself that she loved him to a certain extent, and that was something she'd been holding back from saying, even when there was no one to listen. There'd been some sort of block in her mind, consistently whispering that to love another person would be to let them destroy her again, and it had suppressed her emotions even as they developed, until it all came to a head that starry, starry night when they'd kissed.

And Clary had _enjoyed_ it. She ,her subconscious, whatever was trying to stop her from feeling these strange emotions, had been overpowered by them, if only for a minute, where she let herself be lost in the feel of his lips against hers. And then she remembered all too vividly the jarring avalanche of sense as it crushed her, and she'd wrenched away and ran like one of her father's assassins was chasing her, perhaps hoping to outrun her own heart.

And since then, sense had dictated her every action, every move, keeping her distant from Jonathan and Jace and even Maia, because who knew when they would decide she wasn't worth it, turn tail, and leave again?

But if she'd finally faced the fact that yes, she was in love with him, then maybe. . .

Maybe she trusted him not to.

She glanced up at him, and reached over to squeeze his hand. His aureate eyes went from concerned to confused, but she offered him a small, genuine smile, and he relaxed, an answering one of his own tugging the corner of his lips upwards. And in that moment they were at peace.

"Nervous?" He asked, twisting the doorknob.

"No," she replied honestly, and she watched with satisfaction as his eyebrow shot up into his hairline. "Never again."

They stepped into the room, hands clasped together like children in a fairy tale who had absolutely no one to lean on but each other. And for once, she didn't mind.

* * *

Isabelle worriedly studied her mother, who sat scowling on her phone across the room. Excusing herself from where she and Jon were awkwardly trying to make conversation in the absence of the others, she rose to her feet and went to perch next to the matriarch on the brightly patterned sofa.

For a house that had apparently been abandoned for over a decade, it wasn't too shabby. True, the sofas and chairs and rugs looked to be a bit threadbare, and the lampshades were hung with cobwebs like the windows were hung with patchy curtains, but it could be far far worse. Isabelle shuddered at the thought of them being forced to do a massive clean out of this place. For one thing, it was huge and would probably take years. . . by which point they'd have to start at the beginning again. For another thing, why would they clean out the entire place when they would only be using about a quarter of the rooms?

Dismissing her train of thought, she turned to Maryse, who'd hung up the phone and was scowling down at it. "Who was that?" Isabelle asked cautiously.

Maryse sighed unhappily, and Isabelle was struck - for the umpteenth time in the past few days - just how old her mother looked. Just how tired. And it wasn't just the greying hair, and sallow cheeks, and the wrinkling skin. It was the way she walked, hunched over, the way all the muscles in her face seemed to droop when she relaxed, like clinging to her bones was too strenuous a task for them. It was the way her eyelids half-closed, like she would fall asleep any second.

"I was talking to Jia on the phone," Maryse began, and Isabelle nodded in recognition. Jia was the headmistress of the Institute, the special school Isabelle used to go to that trained children to one day become a part of the Clave. She technically wasn't a part of the main body itself, but her husband, Patrick, was. "She called to check on how we were doing, and she said it was okay if she couldn't visit us because we didn't want the Clave to find us where we are."

"But I thought she was the Clave," Isabelle asked, surprised.

Maryse grimaced. "She technically is, but she's been drifting away for years now, teaching her students some more. . . _unorthodox_ things. She was the one who first came to me with concerns about how it was being run, and I looked into it." Her mother lifted her hands and examined the palms, then the backs, like she was imagining the ghostly blood that could be dripping from them. Her mother hadn't actively participated in any murder, but if the information Jace gathered was anything to go by, she'd certainly unwittingly assisted in a few. "And I didn't like what I found."

Isabelle nodded. Her mother took a deep breath, and continued. "I'm not leaving the Clave behind. I refuse to. I - and Robert - have been bystanders in one of the worst crimes humanity can commit, and I'm going to make it right." She took a deep breath. "One day, soon, I am going to go back there, and I am going to see Malachi and the rest of his corrupt companions behind bars if it kills me. It's killed too many people already." She glanced at her hands again, haunted by the sight. "I will not let this go unpunished."

Isabelle nodded firmly. "Is there anything else Jia said?" She asked. This was the side of her mother she knew and loved the best: the lioness, the fierce mother who would fight tooth and nail to protect her children, and take in the cubs of other lionesses, like she did Jace, because her maternal urge was too powerful to suppress.

Maryse's blue eyes flashed, and her mouth twisted like a paperclip that had been bent out of shape. "She also mentioned that Robert has been hanging around with Patrick a lot. As if I care," she sneered, but there was a mournful glint to her eye that betrayed that she did. "They were always good friends, but she says there's something shady going on with them this time." Maryse tossed her phone onto the chair next to them. "But, I can't do anything about it. Not that I would."

Isabelle remained silent again.

Jonathan, from across the room where he appeared to be painstakingly trying not to listen in to their conversation, looked up suddenly. "Is that Clary and Jace?" He asked, shooting Isabelle a glance. "I thought I heard voices."

"Probably is them then; I know for a fact that Alec and Max aren't coming back anytime soon. That kid's going to drag him all over the place."

And sure enough, though it was a good minute later the door swung open, like there had been some sort of hesitation on the other side, it was Jace and a petite girl with curly pretty hair and a delicate stature stepped in. Of course, Isabelle's focus immediately zoomed in on the important thing: they were holding hands.

 _They were holding hands_.

Isabelle almost wanted to clap her own hands and cry. Her little Jace was all grown up.

"Ummmm," the girl - Clary - said, releasing Jace's hand and walking over to her. Isabelle wanted to squeal at the disappointed expression that crossed her brother's face, that the redhead was oblivious to. "Hi. You must be Isabelle. I'm Clary." Her voice was quite high, but not high and screechy and didn't hurt her eardrums. In fact, it was quite pleasant. Isabelle shook her offered hand. "It's so nice to finally meet you."

"Likewise." She surprised herself, smiling at the redhead with genuine fondness. Clary smiled back shyly, looked slightly bashful. "So, I hear you and Jace kiss-"

 _"Okay,_ Isabelle, try not to mortify Clary within a minute of meeting her," Jace swooped in, pressing a hand to her mouth. She glared at him playfully, then licked his palm. He pulled it back hastily, cringing in disgust. He turned to Maryse as he wiped his hand on his jeans. "Maryse, this is Clary, my. . . friend." He fumbled for words. Clary was blushing like a traffic light begging him to stop.

Isabelle and Jon snorted in unison, then grinned at each other. Jace shot them twin glares, whilst Clary looked like she was wishing the ground would swallow her up.

It didn't. Instead, the door opened to admit Alec and Max, who stopped suddenly and stared when they saw Clary.

"Is this her?" Max asked, voice breathless with awe. Clary had turned to face them, and he stepped up to tug lightly on one of the crimson curls cascading over her shoulder like a shower of copper pennies. To Isabelle's surprise, the girl didn't back away, just stared at the little boy with wide, wary eyes, drinking him in as much as he was her. Alec stood stoic behind his little brother, arms folded over his chest, assessing her with narrowed blue eyes.

"This is her, Max," Jace said softly, as Clary kneeled down so she could look him in the bespectacled eye. "This is the girl who saved your life."

It was a sudden movement, but an expected one, when Max lunged at Clary and wrapped his skinny arms round her midriff. She laughed slightly, then returned the hug, propping her chin up on Max's head of dark curls to meet Alec's eye.

The man hadn't moved; if anything, his facial expression had hardened. "So you're Valentine's daughter," he stated, and though his voice was apathetic, his words conveyed his attitude.

Behind the four in the middle of the room, Isabelle saw Jon stand up, eyes fixed on Alec with menace. Even Max seemed to sense the hostility in the air as he backed away from Clary, letting her rise to her feet. He stood between them, looking up between their faces.

And Clary said, very quietly, "I'm Jocelyn's daughter."

And she turned to sit on the sofa next to her brother, leaning her head on his shoulder with the sort of exhaustion that's more emotional than physical. Jon's arm came up to hold her gently as she sighed, and turned her face into the fabric of his shirt, away rom the world. Jace looked after them with faint surprise.

And Isabelle, looking at the expression of wonder and tenderness on Jon's face as he gazed down at her, couldn't help but observe that this sort of sibling bond wasn't one he was expecting.

A shrill ringing interrupted the silence. It was cut off after the first round as Maryse declined the call, but it started up again. She declined again. It started up again.

Huffing a sigh of defeat, Maryse lifted the phone to her ear and spoke into it. "Hello?" The colour in her face drained. She lifted the phone away from her ear, stared at it, brought it back and whispered, "How?" in a ragged voice. There was some rambling on the other end of the line, then the definitive click of someone hanging up.

Maryse turned to face the rest of the room. At their questioning glances, her face crumpled like a sheet of paper. "Robert was murdered," she said hoarsely, then bent over double as sobs racked her body.

* * *

 **So, I'll try not to leave you hanging again, but I can't make any promises. Review if you're willing to put up with my erratic schedule?**


	29. Frozen Wastelands

**I'm back! And I think I know where I'm going with the plot now. I _will_ get this finished by New Year. I've promised myself.**

 **Sorry for the repost, I just added a little scene on the end there, and altered a few details.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own TMI.**

* * *

 _Chapter song: When the War is Over (Next Step Songs)_

As angry as Isabelle was at her father, as much as she cursed him and insisted he was not a part of her family, there was still a significant part of her that was in agony at his death.

A silence spider webbed over the room like frost over a pond in winter, broken only by the gentle, quiet ripples of Maryse's sobbing. Even Max seemed to understand the severity of the situation; he was uncharacteristically still where he stood gripping onto Alec's legs for dear life, glimmering tears tracking down his cheeks like melting snow and dripping onto Alec's brown trainers. Alec himself wore an expression of almost unfathomable grief; he looked as lost as a sailor who'd just watched their guiding star burn out, even after years of acknowledging that it didn't guide him the right way. The man was holding onto Max as tightly as his little brother was to him; they would probably both end up with bruises later on. Isabelle's heart went out to her brother, it ached for him, that boy who'd chosen a different path to his father's, rather, one that ran parallel to it, only to find that the original one veered off into the wilderness, and he was left alone.

Behind Alec, visible just over his shoulder, Clary and Jon were still holding each other tightly where they sat on the sofa, Clary with her bare feet tucked up beneath her. But their grips had changed; they were tighter, tenser, like they were no longer trying to support each other, but trying to test that their support wouldn't falter. Clary's face was no longer buried in Jon's chest, but her head was propped up against it, hair splashed across the fabric of his shirt like blood-soaked unadorned tree-branches, and her unfaltering jade gaze was fixed on something to Isabelle's right. Her eyes flicked to Isabelle's for a moment, then very pointedly flicked back to whatever she had been staring at before. Isabelle turned to see.

It was Jace.

Her adoptive brother stood not two metres away from her, partly turned away, but she could still see the expression of sheer, glass-like anguish on his face. It was so powerful that it stripped down most of Isabelle's own defences, and she was forced to accept the truth of why she might not be the only one feeling that inexplicable numbness that coated her bones like they'd been dipped in bleach.

Jace wasn't related to Robert by blood. He'd lived and laughed and loved in their household for over nine years, and was as much her brother as Alec or Max, but he wasn't related to them. Any of them. And though he was undoubtably feeling the same ripping feeling of loss as the rest of them, since Robert had been his father figure as well, but he was undoubtably feeling unsure as to whether he was entitled to feel that.

And there were also the questions of what he was feeling at all. He had been growing to hate Robert for quite some time now - they all had, ever since the bombshell of an argument in the hospital. But he was still the man who'd raised him, still one of the only father figures he remembered. He had the right to mourn.

She reached out her hand, delicately, like she was trying to balance a rapidly melting sliver of ice on his shoulder. The muscles tensed under her fingers, but she shifted her hand so that she had his shoulder in a gentle but firm grip. She exerted a gentle tug on his arm, and he turned reluctantly, buttery eyes flicking up to meet hers.

She only stepped forward, wrapping her arms round him. He stiffened, and stood there awkwardly for half a heartbeat before he relaxed into the hug, and brought his arms up to reciprocate the gesture. She sighed against his chest.

The siblings clung to each other for what felt like forever, the Lightwood children marooned in the centre of the floor like lonely islands, with Maryse looking on from where she sat, alone, on the sofa. A tear tracked down her cheek.

And though her heart was still as bleak and desolate as a winter's morning, a ray of hope touched her at the sight.

* * *

After a while, Clary could feel Jon grow antsy beside her, and she herself was too uncomfortable intruding on such a personal scene that she shifted so she gripped Jon's hand, then swiftly and silently dragged him out of the room. They walked down the corridor in a courteous silence, but Clary caught the flash of remorse in his eyes when she hurriedly let go of Jon's hand.

"I thought they hated Robert," Jon said cautiously, evidently aware that she was in a funny mood, where the wrong word or action could send her spiralling off. "I didn't realise they would grieve so much at his death."

The way he phrased it brought her up short. "'You didn't realise'? Don't tell me you're responsible for _this_ death as well. Though I suppose I wouldn't be particularly surprised," she added, bitterness lathering her voice like lemon juice.

"What? No!" He cried defensively. She gave him a withering look, and his shoulders slumped. He looked away briefly, and when he spoke, his voice trembled. "You _know_ I wasn't involved; I've been here with you! Please, Clary; I swear it."

She gave a sharp nod, and he continued. "I just wanted to know why they were so upset about the death of a complete jerk, who was beyond redemption!"

She snorted. The sound was uncomfortably loud in the silent corridor, with only their footsteps to accompany it. "Really, Jon? Yes, they hate him now, and have for a little while. But he's still their father. He's still the man who raised them for the better part of their lives. I understand you might have hardened yourself to the prospect that you might have to kill the man who watched you grow up, but not everyone is that cold and unfeeling. You have to at least be able to understand that."

Jon's eyes - so similar to her own - had narrowed. "What about you, then?" He challenged. She narrowed her own eyes in response. "You insult me for being prepared to kill our father if it came to it, whilst you stand there, after scheming to undermine him!" He glared. "Stop acting like what I did was unforgivable, when you did _the exact same thing yourself_."

She said, very calmly, "I have every right to hate our father." At his scoff, she glared at him until he shut up, and gestured for her to continue. "I don't criticise you for planning on killing him; I know full well that he deserves to die. What I do criticise, however, is the lack of remorse you seem to have."

She waved her hand in his direction in a snappish motion, and Jon was too shocked by her words to say anything. "I hate him; I feel the same as you on that matter. But I don't see why you do. Yes, he killed people, but at the end of the day he was your _father_. He never did anything unforgivable that could turn you against him. You just upped and left, leaving nothing but damage in your wake. I hate him," she reiterated, jabbing her finger in his chest, "because when it all came to a head, _he left me behind_. He decided I wasn't worth it, and took to ignoring me. As far as I'm concerned, that is grounds for walking away from him, considering _he walked away from me first_."

She was breathing heavily now; her cheeks bright spots of colour. Jon tried to speak. He reached out to put a hand on her shoulder. "Clary-"

"Don't touch me!" She seethed, jerking away from his touch. "I hate him for it." She repeated, and now the shudders were starting to calm down, her posture gaining a predatory stillness that scared Jon witless. It meant that she'd made up her mind about something, and he was sure that in this situation, it couldn't be anything good. "I hate him for it. And I hate you for it as well. Because you did _the exact same thing_.

"So tell me, _brother_ ," she spat the word, her eyes chips of ice, "why should I help you, or bother speaking to you? As far as I'm concerned, you died several years ago, didn't you? And I don't see why I should choose you over Valentine, considering you're no better than him."

His eyes had hardened; an unbreakable wall shuttering his feelings from her shrewd eyes. But his voice betrayed his desperacy. "I _know_ you don't mean that, Clary. I know you. He _killed_ people. You would've grown to hate him anyway, if you had all the facts."

"That's just the point now, isn't it?" She countered bitterly, and was ashamed to feel tears prick her eyes. "No one ever gives me all the facts."

Clary ignored Jon's distraught face as she went to walk away. The silence made the distance between them seem larger than it was as she did.

Those awful words hung between them, fragile glass beads on a necklace woven of delicate cobwebs: _As far as I'm concerned, that is grounds for walking away from him, considering he walked away from me first._

A light touch on her shoulder had her flinching away. A sigh, then, "They're alive."

That brought her up short. She paused long enough to say, "What?"

Another sigh, but no answer. She turned to see him run his hands through his hair - the tell tale nervous habit he'd always had. He'd even had it as a ten year old, trying to desperately drag her away from visiting Jace. He met her eyes uncertainly as she said, very, very quietly, her voice as soft as darkness, "What did you say?"

He sighed again, and dragged his hand over his face, then looked her dead in the eye. "They're alive. Jocelyn and Sebastian."

The world stopped spinning. She suddenly found herself swaying unsteadily on her feet. Was that her blood pounding in her ears? Surely not; her heartbeat wasn't that loud.

Jon's sympathetic gaze was almost too much to bear. "Luke told you they died, because it's not certain they survived. We found bones in the fire - bones of what looked like Valentine, Jocelyn, Sebastian, and you. But you're alive. You're right here. When Luke told you they'd died, we hadn't found anything. And when we did find them, considering the fact that we know you're alive, it threw everything into suspicion."

Her vision swam. Why was it swimming? It only did this when she'd submerged herself in the lake and needed to come up for oxygen... _Breathe, Clary. Breathing is good._

When her vision cleared, Jon's eyes were glittering with bitterness. "So, Clarissa," he hissed, and his voice was sardonic, but not in a way that was funny. "Are you happy to know all the information now?" She didn't respond.

"By the way," he said absently, from where he had turned away. The words reached Clary's ears like she was underwater. "Luke called. He said Maia's coming over, and she's bringing new clothes to see if they fit you better, and she's bringing Simon. Apparently they kept in touch. So you can have a reunion of sorts."

And then he was gone, jogging off, _sprinting_ , off, and Clary waited until his footfalls had faded, waited until that deadly ice webbing through her veins had almost reached her heart, before she finally screamed.

* * *

The doorbell rang.

Isabelle stayed there, hugging Jace, for a minute or two, until the doorbell rang again. And again. And again. And again.

Finally deciding that perhaps this mundane task would be a distraction from the massive mess her life had become, Isabelle extracted herself from Jace's embrace, and padded down the corridor to answer the door. Her gaze was downcast as she did so, and so it was half a beat before she flicked her gaze up - and froze.

No. This particular mundane task would _not_ distract from the laughable mess her life had become.

Because at the door stood Maia Roberts - and Simon Lewis, a step behind her.

* * *

 **I've published a story on Wattpad, called _The Girl of Light and Shadow_ under the username AGirlOfManyColours if anyone's interested in reading that.**

 **What did you think? Review?**


	30. Sweetness of Belladonna

**Thank you for all your kind reviews! So, a very angst-filled chapter for Sizzy coming up.**

 **Disclaimer: I'm flattered that you think I write as well as Cassandra Clare, but I'm not her, and I don't, so I'm afraid that a) your faith is misplaced, and b) I don't anything here save the plot.**

* * *

 _Chapter song: No Good in Goodbye by The Script_

Isabelle froze.

 _No._

 _No no no no no no no no no no._

She breathed in.

She breathed out.

She closed her eyes.

She scrunched them up tight until they watered.

She opened them again.

Nope.

They. Were. Still. There.

She took another shuddering breath, and shook her head. She barely noticed as a frustrated tear slipped out of her eye. She leaned her shoulder against the doorframe. To block off what they cans see inside; to show that they had no hope of going in. Yep. That was it. No way was it because she needed something the lean on now her knees had started trembling.

She didn't know how much time had passed since she first laid eyes on them. She shivered; the breeze was quite chilly. Had she only just noticed?

She gulped again, then said hoarsely, "Wha-"

She was cut off by Simon's exclamation. "Isabelle," he said, and her name was like a prayer on his lips. Though a substantial amount of her was still bristling at his nerve, she couldn't deny that a part of her melted at it. She damned herself for being a masochist, and forced herself to keep her expression cool as stone as Simon stepped forward, shunting Maia aside, and spluttered, "What are you do-"

"I live here." She replied blankly. She looked past Simon to meet Maia's eyes. Her amber eyes were solemn, and filled with such regret that Isabelle had to look away before her resolve to turn them away crumbled. Assuming an unaffected air, she looked her over again and said, imperiously, "You just happened to forget to mention that? I _know_ Clary used your phone to call me that other day."

Simon whirled on their friend. "Maia, what is she-"

"Izzy," Maia breathed. "Please, you have to know that-"

" _Don't_ call me that!" She seethed. "And what is there to know?"

Maia pursed her lips, but that same old spark of stubbornness entered her irises. "Fine," she said coolly. "Have it your way; we won't address the elephant in the room. So I'll cut to the point and say that we came to visit Clary." She lifted her chin at Isabelle's vaguely surprised expression. "Clarissa Morgenstern? I trust you know her?" Her grin was a joyless thing. "Well, as I'm sure you know, Clary was our friend years ago, before she disappeared, and her brother called a few hours ago to arrange a. . . meet up, of sorts." She smiled with all the sweetness of belladonna. "Is there a problem?"

 _Two can play at that game_. Isabelle smiled back just as bitterly, and stepped aside to let them through. Her resolve to hold up against their mind games solidified her nerve and she found she could step away from the shelter of the door to usher them in without her knees collapsing beneath her. Her lips spread to bare her teeth, but it was more of a snarl or grimace than a gesture of joy - even a fake one. "Oh not at all," she simpered, and Maia's eyes narrowed. "Why don't you come in?"

Maia stepped past the threshold without further prompting, but Simon lingered on the top step. He cut her a desperate look, "Isabelle, _please,_ let me ex-"

She reached out to grab his wrist, and yanked him in. He lost his balance on the carpet and stumbled slightly, before slamming into Maia who caught him like she'd been expecting it. His glasses had been knocked off at some point and she shut the door before very pointedly stepping over them and leaving them there. She brushed her hands down her front like she was brushing her hands of them. She looked up to see Simon glaring at her, hurt in his eyes, but she ignored it. "What's in the bag?" She asked dispassionately, nodding to the rucksack slung over Maia's shoulder.

"Clothes for Clary," came the curt reply. Maia's eyes glittered. "I figured she'd need some new ones, and I didn't think that yours would fit her, little thing she is. She's like a pixie."

Isabelle almost snarled. _Bitch_. Bitch for bringing that up when she knew perfectly well that Isabelle had always wished she wasn't so tall, so Amazonian. How Isabelle had always been unspeakably jealous of small girls with delicate bone structures, who were pretty in their own fragile way. Isabelle was beautiful, she knew that much, but comparing her features to someone like Clary's' was like comparing fire to glass. Glass was - and had always been - infinitely more precious.

She hated Maia for bringing that up.

"Where's Clary?" The girl said now, nose wrinkled in distaste, as though she loathed having to ask the question.

Isabelle responded just as haughtily, "The last I saw her she was leaving the living room. Who knows where she is now."

Maia scowled and stalked off. Simon didn't follow. He was still standing off to the side, watching her with that wary but heartbroken expression, like a kicked puppy. It only made Isabelle angrier when she felt a twang in her gut. He hurt her first! He had no right to look dejected, and then turn the tables and make _her_ feel bad!

"Isabelle?" Simon said, and even the _sound_ of his voice, tentative and whispering, made her angry.

Oh God, that _anger_. She could feel it writhing in her gut like a living thing; like some sort of parasitical worm that served to feed off of the pain her reckless actions caused, or bile that had been misplaced by her stomach. Anger at her father's death, anger at her mixed emotions because of it, anger at Maia, and at Simon, anger at the universe deciding to dump all of this chaos on her in the span of a few weeks and expecting her to deal with it. Anger at herself, for not dealing with it properly.

It was this realisation that sapped her energy and caused her to rub a hand over her forehead. She was so tired of being angry all the time.

So it was with a soft, exhausted voice that said, "What do you want, Simon?" It was the first time she'd said his name in what felt like eons.

Apparently the stupid boy took this as encouragement, because he stepped forward and stood behind her. She could feel his hand hovering over her shoulder, feel the indecision warring inside him as to whether he should take her shoulder, or give her space. Finally, he seemed to opt for the latter, and stood at a respectful distance behind her.

"I just wanted to explain," he said simply.

She sighed. The sound of the exhale was unnaturally loud in the still silence of the corridor. "What is there to explain?" She asked. "You were willing to hurt me because you didn't have the guts to own up to your own feelings, or work up the courage to outright _ask me_. So what can you say to excuse that? You could you ever say, period?"

He sighed. "I'm sorry?" She scoffed, and was about to turn around and show him a remnant of the remaining flare of anger that surged in her, before he hurried on. "And I'm not just saying that; I really am sorry. I'm sorry I was too blind to see you were hurt. I'm sorry I was the one who hurt you. I'm sorry I'm such a coward." His tone was starting to adopt the bitter tinge of self-loathing. "I'm sorry that I couldn't tell you the truth outright. But I'm saying it now."

He took a step closer, until she felt the heat from his body spread across her back. She'd tilted her head to listen, and now she caught a glimpse of him in her peripheral vision, of olive skin, and white teeth, and dark hair falling into even darker, sorrowful eyes. "I love you Isabelle Lightwood. I'm in love with you. And I'm sorry I was too much of a coward and an idiot to say it truthfully before. I'm sorry you thought I'd thrown you aside. But I'm saying it now."

She turned around to look him in the eye, and found painful, horrifically painful, hope there. "What do you want me to say?" She asked softly, shaking her head.

His breathing hitched. "Say you'll give me a second chance." He offered her his hand, palm up.

She eyed it, and her chest ached, but her mind was made up.

She knew where the path would take her. She would date him, but she would never fully trust him again. She would be restless - they both would be. And she knew, felt it resonate deep in her gut, that if she took this route, one day she would regret turning up the chance to strike out on her own.

She reached out, and took his fingers, and very gently curled his hand into a fist. She still held it between her two hands as she said, "I love you too, Simon," the light in his face made her want to cry, like she was looking at a lightbulb she was about to unplug. Her voice dropped to a whisper as she said, "But I can't trust you."

His eyes, which had been half-closed, flew open. He gaped at her, fresh hurt bleeding from his features. She just shook her head.

"I can't trust you again, Simon. No matter how much I wish I could, I can't. And I'd rather deal with a justified break now, than a relationship with no trust. So, I'm sorry," she continued. His face crumpled as though he was about to cry. "But my answer is no, Simon. No."

"You can't mean that," he said desperately. "Don't- Don't decide now. Your father just died. You're not thinking straight. Think over it."

"What makes you think my decision would be any different if I did?" She asked, and her voice was more of a purr then, the velvet tones of a heartbreaker. The voice of Isabelle Lightwood, the Institute's heartbreaker. _But heartbreakers didn't get their hearts broken_. "And my father's death has nothing to do with this. If anything, it's making everything more clear. Life's too short to waste on a relationship that was doomed to begin with." She patted his hand. "I wish you well."

Her voice didn't crack. She dropped his hand; it swung back and collided with his thigh with a thud.

She didn't turn around to see his distraught face as she walked away.

* * *

"Thank you, Maia," Clary said earnestly, tugging absentmindedly at the hem of the new t-shirt - one that actually fit her. From the price tag she'd found dangling from the hem and the rough stitches in the side, she guessed that the clothes were newly bought, and sewn in an attempt to make the smallest size fit her even smaller frame. But they were comfortable, even if they weren't the most aesthetically pleasing garments in the world, and that was really all she wanted.

Maia's gaze softened. "You're welcome, Clare. It's been too long."

Clary nodded in agreement. "It has." There was a tentative silence, then, "What happened between you and Isabelle?"

Maia pursed her lips. "A small misunderstanding."

All Clary had to do was raise an eyebrow to get her to break. "Well, alright, it was more than that. I fake dated Simon to help him find out if she liked him or not. To make him jealous."

Clary nodded. Obviously, she had no experience with these things, but she'd read about such tactics and vaguely understood them. "But I take it she didn't like that?"

Maia shook her head, and her face drooped. "No. She completely blew up when she found out. And I can kind of see where she's coming from; it _was_ pretty horrible of us to drag her feelings through the thorn bushes like that, just because Simon lacked the guts to own up to his own, but. . ." Maia tilted her head back and groaned. "I guess. . . I don't know. I just wish she wasn't so mad at me."

Clary nodded wisely, like she knew exactly what Maia was talking about, even if she didn't have a clue. She hadn't had much experience with people.

Maia looked back at her then, eyes wide, like she'd been caught doing something she shouldn't be. A look of guilt crossed her face. "I'm so sorry," she said with a half laugh. "You must think so bad of me, rambling about my petty friendship problems, when yours are literally life or death." She reached out for her slightly.

Clary shook her head, and clasped Maia's extended hand in her own. "I don't think that." She assured her. "Problems are problems, no matter what shape or size they come in."

Maia smiled at that, then leaned forwards and encased the smaller girl in a hug, startling her.

The moment was interrupted however, by a knock at the door. Clary detached herself from the taller girl, and raised an eyebrow at Jon as he poked his head in. He didn't seem to register her glare; in fact, his face had the distinct look of one who had seen the ghost of a dubious enemy, and returned from the encounter severely scarred.

"Clary," he said, and bit his lip as he glanced behind him. "You might want to see this."

Clary didn't rise from her cross legged position on the bed, but cocked her head as the door opened further.

At first she thought she was seeing double.

Then Sebastian turned, and it hit her just how different the twin brothers looked, as he cast her a nervous grin.

* * *

 **...Don't kill me.**

 **Seriously, how can they come to a nice ending if I'm dead?**

 **Review?**

 **Update: I added on the second part from Clary's PoV at the end, just so I don't have to write out another boring filler chapter.**


	31. Freefall

**Thanks for all your kind reviews!**

 **Remember what I said about finishing this story by New Years? Yeah, probably won't happen. It's coming soon, though.**

 **Also, my best friend started reading this! Hello, Izzy!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own The Mortal Instruments. They belong to Cassandra Clare.**

* * *

Jon was doing his best to convince himself he was hallucinating.

This couldn't actually be Sebastian, his estranged twin brother, standing in front of him on the doorstep of Luke's manor house. It simply couldn't be.

Because if it was. . .

Jonathan and Sebastian had once been able to read each other like open books.

But the emotions that flitted beneath the surface of Sebastian's carefully controlled face were written in a different language.

Slowly, carefully, he raised one pale eyebrow, and cocked his head. That cruel amusement that the twins had learned from a young age to pacify their father - the amusement that had always come easily to Sebastian - curled the upper edge of his lip, and his - their - sharp features turned as hard and sharp as ice. His white hair was mussed up by the wind blowing itself into a gale outside, but he himself stood eerily still, like an ancient oak that had been bent and battered and broken in its youth, and would be moved no more.

Sebastian said, very, very quietly. "Jonathan."

There was nothing in that voice. Not a whisper of emotion marred the frosty, smooth tones that had been taught to them.

Jonathan itched against the urge to slam the door in his brother's face.

But then Sebastian asked, and there was a slight strain to his voice, "Where's Clary?"

The name was a punch to the gut - just as his brother intended it to be. _Clary._ Not "Clarissa", or "our sister". Not even "my sister". Just _Clary_. The nickname he had never used, to the best of Jonathan's memory, to refer to her by, feeling that his absence from her life, and the distance between them, meant that he didn't deserve to call her by the nickname she only allowed those close to her to say.

Perhaps he was saying it now to get under Jonathan's skin; perhaps he had genuinely developed that closeness with his little sister in the past few years. Jon wouldn't know.

He'd been too afraid to ask. Perhaps he should have.

Trying not to act like that handful of words had paralysed him as surely as though they'd severed his spinal cord, he tried to shuffle aside, and wave his brother in. His feet felt like they'd been rooted to the floor, but someone he managed to pry them up and move to the side just enough for his brother to slide through. He did so, albeit grudgingly, and distaste crinkled his nose.

"Clary's up here," Jon said, his voice a hollowed out tree trunk. They began walking along the corridor. Sebastian made no comment on the house, or the trinkets dotted about, nor what they were doing there, and Jon knew better than to try to make small talk. So the silence stretched on and on and on, and Jon could feel the tension building between them, like a branch being slowly bent as it was pushed out of the way, and preparing to snap back.

Jonathan kept his attention on not tripping over any lose carpet, or crashing into walls at the corners he was supposed to turn, to keep his mind off of the living, breathing reminder of all he'd lost - no; all he'd _sacrificed_ \- walking alongside him. It had been bad enough with Clary here.

And now, here was Sebastian.

He snuck a sideways glance at him.

His brother walked with an almost unnatural, predatory stillness, but there was strength in every movement, like an automaton of fire and marble brought to life. His face seemed to rest in a frown, and though he kept his eyes firmly fixed on the passage ahead, Jon felt that he knew he was studying him. They had grown up by the same amount, to the same height, and yet the way Sebastian held himself made him seem so much taller.

Though there was mere centimetres between their arms, but it might as well have been years.

It _was_ years.

Jon swallowed again as they _finally_ reached Clary's room. Couldn't she have picked one closer to the door? The long walk had been agonising.

He lifted his hand to knock, and listened to the sound reverberate.

He opened the door, and poked his head in.

Clary looked up at him from where she sat cross legged on her bed, in one of the tops he suspected Maia, who now hovered awkwardly in the corner, had brought for her. It looked a bit big, and not at all Clary. _Not that you know who Clary is. Not really._

He swallowed.

Again.

Took a breath.

"Clary," he got out. He was sure his voice trembled. "You might want to see this." He stepped aside.

Clary's green eyes latched onto Sebastian instantly. They stared at each other for a moment, until Sebastian let that icy façade crack, grinned, and say, "Hey."

Apparently that was all it took.

Jon blinked, and he wasn't sure which one moved first, but suddenly Clary's face was buried in Sebastian's shoulder, and he was pressing her to his chest. They stood in the centre of the room, and it hurt him a hell of a lot more than he thought it would as, although no words were said, and no tears were shed, they gripped onto each other like they'd been dropped out of a helicopter and were now flying in the freefall.

* * *

"Where's Mum?" Clary asked the moment she pulled away. She rocked back on the heels of her feet and let herself fall onto the bed, not once breaking her gaze from her brother's. She glanced at the door briefly once she asked the question, as though Jocelyn might march through the door at any given moment with all the authority she'd used to command, before she realised that not only was Jocelyn in a coma, but the only person in that direction was Jon as he leaned in the doorway, eyes shadowed. Maia had slipped out past him moments before, apparently realising this was a situation she didn't want to be caught in the middle of.

When she'd glanced back at him, Sebastian's lips had hardened into a thin line, and his eyes had never seemed so piercing.

"Never mind where Mum is," he said gruffly, and she blinked as she tried to analyse that statement. Before she could, however, he slapped her on the shoulder and demanded, "What the Hell were you thinking?"

She blinked again as he took a seat next to her and glared like he expected her to give him the answer. Jon slunk into the room from where he'd been loitering on the edge of the threshold, and curled up in the window seat, gaze fixed on the two of them. Sebastian's eyes flickered to him and back - brief, but long enough for Clary to discern the hostility behind it. She gave him a long, assessing look, but Sebastian brushed it off so hastily it just left her wondering.

He clarified, "What the hell were you thinking? I waited at the bottom of the servant's stairwell for you, but you never came out!" His leg started bouncing up and down, and he ran his fingers through his hair. Clearly, he had been worrying over this for weeks. His state of agitation was surprisingly touching. "It _killed_ me to leave the house, Clary. I didn't know whether or not you'd survived; I didn't know if you'd been burned severely and gotten out safely but later died; I didn't know _anything_!"

He stood up then, and she watched with faint amazement as he started pacing. "And then Father's telling me you were burned to death because the servant's stairwell was blocked, and you couldn't get out in time, and showing me the bones to prove it, and then. . ." He paused in his soliloquy, and looked down at is hands. "I left Mum with Father at whatever new fancy headquarters he dredged up. I don't know what I was hoping to do, but I started wandering about town, and then Luke approached me and told me you were alive, and here." He glanced at Jon, then at Clary, and added, "In the strictest confidence, of course. So I decided to visit and see if he was telling the truth." He paused in his pacing altogether there, and narrowed his eyes at Jon. He outright sneered at his twin as he continued, "And when _he_ answered the door, I knew I was in the right place."

Clary swallowed against her dry throat. "Ah."

"Ah, indeed."

Sebastian wasn't angry, she realised belatedly. Not at her at least. No; the fury rolling off of him wasn't for her. But the shudders that racked his frame, the desperacy with which he'd held her as they hugged. . . It was all these bottled up emotions breaking free. Anger, worry, and complete and utter terror at what could have happened to her.

So when he sat down again, she just placed a hand on his shoulder, and didn't say anything. Words were useless anyway.

Several heartbeats of silence followed, before Clary broke it with a heavy sigh, one that spoke of tiredness beyond what anyone her age should ever experience, then said, "So what do we do now?"

And Jon spoke for the first time in what seemed like an age, as he said, "You stay here. Both of you. Luke, Maia, the others and I can continue this fight."

Clary's brows were raised in indignation, a retort on her lips, but Sebastian beat her to it as he growled at his twin, "Like Hell we will. This is our fight too."

Jon's eyes shuttered, like blinds had been closed behind them. He carefully schooled his expression into neutrality as he said, very slowly, "You've both suffered enough in your lifetime. The last thing I want is for Clary - or you - to get caught up in this again."

Sebastian pushed himself to his feet. "Need I remind you, that I'm going to have to be living in the centre of enemy territory? I can't disappear without someone noticing." Jon nodded as he was forced to concede the point. "And because of that, I'm the best informant you lot could get, now that you've left." His words curled upwards in pitch and volume as he finished them, until he was half shrieking.

Jon fired back. "Is it a crime to want my last remaining family to be safe?"

"No." Sebastian spat. "But it is to try and control our decisions, when you made it clear all those years ago that you didn't give a shit what happened to us!"

Jon's eyes widened, and understandably. Sebastian didn't curse. But he didn't address that all too provoking statement, instead saying, "You may have a point about the informant thing."

Sebastian ignored it though. "So stop acting like you have our best interests heart." He finished. "And _stop_ leaving Clary out of the loop. We've all grown up now, so it's time to stop treating her like a little girl as breakable as her antique porcelain dolls." She is a _human being_ and you have _no right_ to limit her decisions, to be protective to the point of being stifling!"

Jon flinched.

But when her estranged brother spoke, it was with a quiet broken tone. He'd somehow managed to press himself so far back into the wall he resembled a painting. "We swore to keep her out of it. Years ago. We _swore_ it."

Clary almost felt like saying that she was still there, but she was almost afraid to break the mood in the air, thoughts sliding in a net around the three Morgenstern siblings like beads of rainwater on a spider's web.

Sebastian's chin was high, and his tone was cutting. "We also swore to always be a team." He spat. "And look where that got us." As though oblivious to the expression of utter devastation on Jon's face, Sebastian continued in a hard voice that would not be questioned, "So help us discuss what to do next."

Jon nodded.

Sebastian took a deep breath, and slumped back onto the bed. Clary gave his shoulder a reassuring pat.

"So. . ." Jon dragged out the single syllable as it trailed off into silence. Clary wasn't sure whether it was out of sarcasm or uncertainty. "Do you, or do you not, know why Valentine is targeting these people in particular?"

Valentine. Not "Father" or "our father". Valentine. This was a purely professional conversation.

Sebastian's eyes remained closed as he asked, "You mean how he chooses his victims?"

Jon nodded. How Sebastian, with his eyes closed, saw and registered the nod, Clary didn't know, but her brother continued, "I'm not sure what the link between them is, but I know he's got some sort of computer that comes up with lists of families to target. It's somehow to do with genetics, but the connections between the different families listed seem non-existent."

He sighed as he passed a hand in front of his face, and propped himself onto his elbows.

"He's got some sort of program that comes up with the list. It's one of a kind; I know because I remember he was talking about how he employed the man who designed and built it, then killed him so he could never pass on the secrets of it, or build another like it. It just spits out names, and Valentine keeps ledgers of notes on the families he's tracking down to pick the perfect time and place to do it. Then he sends in his assassins." Sebastian gulped then, a quick bob of his throat. Jon's eyes narrowed.

"You."

"Me. Sometimes."

It was Clary who broke the heavy silence again, as she said, "So all we have to do is destroy that program, and destroy the notes? Then he won't know who to go after, or how to start, as he killed the man who made the original?"

Both Jon and Sebastian blinked. "Yes." Sebastian admitted, looking slightly startled. He glanced over at her, a kernel of respect glimmering in his dark eyes. "To put it succinctly."

She smirked, and leaned back against the wall. "Then let's do it."

* * *

 **What did you think? Please review!**


	32. A Scarred Blade Forged Anew

**I'm back! I've devised a method of updating that involves the next chapter to the story that I haven't updated the longest is given first priority, so I get through all of them.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own TMI; it belongs to Cassandra Clare. I do, however, own the plot, and plagiarism is distinctly unappreciated.**

* * *

The plan they shortly and swiftly concocted was made of illusions and lies, and the sleight of hand magicians depended on.

In short, it all relied on the fact that no one looked too closely.

Nevertheless, despite the vagueness of the summary, the conversation didn't fail to make Clary's head spin and her brain ache as she tried to process the information being loaded onto her. Between Jonathan's mind, trained to calculate and assess, and Sebastian's well of information, she found that she was almost certainly the expendable one here.

Throughout the discussion, amidst the cold glares Sebastian shot Jon's way, her estranged brother kept fidgeting, his green eyes constantly flicking up to meet Sebastian's icy ones, then fluttering away. Finally, when they had a coherent idea of the first steps that needed to be taken, Jon looked at her, squared his shoulders, and said, "Clary, I get the sense that Jace and the Lightwoods won't be entirely thrilled by this turn of events."

 _Understatement of the century_ , she thought, but let him go on.

"They might. . . object, to Sebastian's presence," he went on delicately. He flicked a pointed look between her, Sebastian, and the door. She furrowed her brows at him when Sebastian turned away from her to glare at him once more, and mouthed _What?_

Then it hit her like a train, and her eyes widened. _Oh God._ Jon nodded grimly.

Sebastian was Valentine's son - true, she and Jon were also Valentine's children, but they'd openly and expressly renounced their relations to him. Sebastian, on the other hand, was still very much in the grey area as far as his allegiances went.

Not to mention they knew he'd tried to kill Max. . .

She pressed a hand to her stomach, suddenly nauseated. "I'll head down and talk to them."

Sebastian gave her a quizzical look, but Jon just nodded again, equally as grimly. Sebastian shot them both a narrow eyed, calculating glare as she bolted out.

* * *

Jon watched the door slam behind Clary with a heavy sense of finality, almost heavier than the weight of the glare his twin brother - once the person he was closest to in the world - bequeathed him.

He felt bad letting Clary believe that he'd surreptitiously asked her to leave so she could. . . soften the blow, of Sebastian's arrival, but it wasn't like he _didn't_ want her to do that. He'd just had ulterior motives in getting her out of the room.

He and Sebastian needed to talk, properly, face to face. The unabridged version of precisely where they stood, whether it be brothers, allies, or even enemies - and Sebastian would most certainly try to sugar coat the true extent of his feelings if Clary was present. Heartbreakingly loyal to their old vow to protect her until the bitter end - even when she insisted she didn't need protecting.

When Jon spoke, his voice was low. "I know you hate me."

Sebastian remained silent.

"And I know you want to break that perfectly crafted mask of ice, and shout and scream at me for. I know you hate me for leaving."

Still, Sebastian's face was a façade of dark, glittering amusement.

Jon spread his arms. "We are in the bedroom that is the furthest away from the rest of the house that you can get. Clary isn't expecting us down for at least another twenty minutes, and I doubt anyone would notice for a few hours if you knocked me out."

Sebastian just blinked. Once. Twice.

Jon dropped his hands and sagged in the window seat, passing a hand over his face. He tilted his head back against the glass pane and let his eyes slide shut, a groan puffing out through his teeth.

Then, "You absolute fool."

Jon didn't dare react other than to open his left eye fractionally to peer at his twin brother. Sebastian's features were still set in stone, but now it was turning molten, his chest beginning to rise and fall more rapidly as the anger and words came rushing out.

"You traitor."

A beat.

"Liar."

Jon's saliva dried in his throat.

"Monumental prick."

Jon had to choke on a laugh at that.

"What were you thinking?"

The words were almost pensive, but Jon closed his eyes against them anyway, knowing and mourning the seething anger that had always rolled behind the weariness, like a larger wave following a ripple.

" _What were you thinking?!"_

A sigh left Jon as he heard the words, spoken louder and with more conviction. He opened his eyes to see his suddenly on his feet, pacing the room as the words poured forth, like some sort of dam carefully constructed out years' deception had burst, and everything - _everything_ \- had come rushing out.

Sebastian's voice cracked as he raved. "We were _brothers_. We were _best friends_. We were _inseparable_." His breath caught, and he had to clear his throat before continuing. "We made a _promise_ : to always be there for each other. _And you broke it_."

It became very difficult to breathe. Not that he had any time to draw breath to talk before Sebastian ploughed on.

"You just _left_ , and allowed us to think you were _dead_. It completely _shattered_ our family. Clary- Clary was distraught. _Jocelyn_ was distraught. Father locked himself away in his study and only came out when he decided to start training _me_ to do his dirty work."

Yes, breathing was now a far fetched dream.

"And I hated you." The words were quiet, haunted with the echoes of years of bitterness, and self-loathing. "I hated you for going and dying on us, and for making everything fall apart. And I hated myself for thinking that. I hated myself that I just stood back and let everyone fall apart. I hated them too, for falling apart in the first place, but. . . I hated myself more.

"And then Clary starts to drag herself out of this silent pit she's been slumbering in." Sebastian continued. "And I was so, so proud of her for that. When she started meeting up with Jace, I was proud of her. I had always wanted to fight back in some way, but if Valentine had me removed, like a part of me suspected he'd removed you. . . The burden would fall to Clary. She was still so fragile. I couldn't force that kind of responsibility on her.

"So when she started to fight back, I covered for her. I fed Father the lies about who the informant was. I let him execute some of his most loyal members. I did anything and everything I could, to keep his eyes away from Clary and me. Because. . . I couldn't lose another sibling."

Sebastian had stopped pacing, and was now half-facing away from Jon, his anguish written over his face. His hands were folded behind his back, and his eyes were riveted to a snag in the carpet as he recited the rest of his story.

"When I confronted Clary about it, the things she said. . ." Jon didn't dare ask what they were as Sebastian's eyelashes grew damp. "They hurt. A lot. And even when she opened up to me more about what she was doing, I knew that she was still keeping secrets. And that hurt too, but it was understandable. I'd tried to convince them al that I was Valentine's puppet, and I'd done so well I'd almost convinced myself.

"And when she told me you were alive, and that she'd known for _days_ , and she hadn't told me, like I didn't _deserve_ to know. . . It was painful. Excruciatingly so. And that was when everything came crashing down, with the fire, and the separation. . .

"And the knowledge that my twin brother, the one person in which I'd once trusted my heart and soul to, had left without a backwards glance. Had gone to the extent of faking his own death just to get away from us. And Clary had been working with you. Without me. I'd been left out again.

"These past few days. . . Thinking that Clary, the one sibling who hadn't upped and left, was dead, and that only _you_ had survived. That the person who we'd both sacrificed so much to protect, had died, and the oath breaker remained."

Sebastian turned slowly, until his eyes found Jon's, and tears freely spilled down the twins' cheeks.

Sebastian's voice was stronger when he spoke. "And now, I don't care what you say, I am going to fight. I am going to fight against our father, because he is killing people, and he abandoned Clary, Jocelyn and me to the fire. I am going to find a way to fight back, even if Clary will always keep secrets from me, even if you disappear again and leave me all alone, even if everyone downstairs hates my guts and might plant a knife in my back at any moment. I am going to fight, because now that Clary's safe, I need a purpose to devote my cause to, to keep me from thinking about everything that's happened." His eyes were hard. "So I don't care if you accept my offer of assistance, but if you reject it, I will not offer again. You swear to make sure Clary is safe, and I'll head off and find some other way to fight. Just say the word."

He held out his hand.

Jon surveyed Sebastian's face. So much pain there, so many scars. A battle-hardened weapon marred by countless scratches, but unbreakable, and only the more fearsome because of it.

So Jon clasped his brother's hand in his own.

Something rushed between them, something hot, and fiery, and bright. It was painful in its intensity, but their grips didn't loosen, and as Sebastian's rigid posture bowed, Jon watched as that fire filled in a few of the scars, until they were no more than burning grooves in his brother's demeanour. Molten steel, that's what it was, as it swept over that scarred blade until it was forged anew.

And the glimmer of liquid light in Sebastian's eyes as he straightened was eerily reminiscent of the sunlight off a sword.

Jon's voice cracked as he said, "Welcome to the team."

* * *

"Why is he here."

There was no hatred, or any form of inflection to Alec's voice, but Clary flinched all the same.

"He's my brother." She said firmly. She met eyes of blue flame, but refused to be cowed. "He has as much right to be here as you do."

Isabelle had come up behind her brother, and her dark eyes narrowed with the same distrust. "He's Valentine's pet." She spat, casting a backwards look at Jace, who was frozen on the sofa, like he wasn't quite sure what side to throw his support behind. "Why do you trust him? He could just as easily sell us all out as help us. Perhaps he's planning on doing just that. Perhaps _you're_ planning on doing just that."

Jace's eyes widened, even as a familiar iciness crept over Clary. She levelled her shoulders, met the taller girl's eye, and said in a cool, assertive voice that was not her own, "I doubt Valentine would spare your family a passing glance, other than to kill you all. And if I'd wanted your family to die, I would have left you to starve."

Jace jerked away like he'd been struck, and Isabelle's features contorted - in pain, or anger, Clary couldn't tell. Alec's only response was a faint tightening of his lips.

She only continued. "So stop questioning _my brother's_ actions, when you know _nothing_. Or you can get out."

Isabelle sneered slightly. "Your _brother_ tried to kill mine!"

Clary's heart skipped in her throat. Of course they would think that; he had, of course, slit Max's throat with the intention of killing him, once all his efforts of rebellion had been exhausted. But. . . "Sebastian tried to save Max's life."

Isabelle gaped slightly as she said that, but her face hardened soon enough. Jace had gone very, very still. In the end it was Alec who said, "How could he? The only thing remotely like a warning we received was that email you sent."

Clary heard the door of a door opening and closing, and knew without knowing that her brothers had just entered. But she didn't turn to look at them, even as Jace's cold eyes went straight to them, and stayed there.

Her heart beat very, very loudly against her skull. "I didn't send the email."

The world balanced on a knife edge, and teetered slowly as Jace said, "But. . . Then who did?"

Clary closed her eyes, praying for him to speak up. And sure enough, her brother's voice piped up behind her, and they all turned to face him as he shifted o his feet.

"I did," said Sebastian hoarsely.

* * *

 **Review?**


	33. Pools of Teardrops and Gold

**I'm sorry... It's been forever... It's such a short chapter... But I _promise_ this is the last filler chapter. Stuff gets interesting from now on.**

 **Also, shout out to fanvergentfangirl19 for their incredibly encouraging review! It made me so happy to read.**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. You know the drill.**

* * *

Jace gaped at her. "What?"

Clary just stood straighter, still firmly planted between her brothers and the Lightwoods, and glared. "You heard him," she snapped. She wasn't entirely sure _why_ she was snapping, but. . . "He was the one who sent it."

The information was beginning to sink in now, and she watched as Jace's face went from shocked and awestruck, to angered, betrayed, and maybe a little hurt. "Well if you didn't send it," he said, voice hard and ringing, "then why did you say you did?"

"I _never_ said I did." She bit back. "You just assumed it. I didn't even know what you were talking about, as of then!"

Jace's voice rose to a shout. "Then why didn't you say something?!"

"Because he is my brother!" She shouted right back. Isabelle blinked owlishly; a dark storm crossed Alec's face. "Because he is _my brother,_ and you were a complete _stranger_! Did you think that I would willingly spill every single secret at your feet the moment I met you? Did you expect me to sell out the _only remaining family member I had_?"

If Jon was hurt, he didn't show it.

Jace was still seething by the looks of it, but he gritted his teeth and said at normal volume, "Fine; I understand why you didn't tell me at first." His voice broke a little. "But why didn't you tell me later on? Why didn't you trust me enough to tell me?" _What did I do wrong?_ He seemed to say.

She gritted her teeth. "It was never relevant again, and you wouldn't have trusted me enough to trust my information if I revealed I'd lied. And as I grew to trust you more. . . " She swallowed. "It was also the time I grew to be closer to Sebastian. So, yes; I trusted you, but I wanted to protect him more."

Alec cut in then, voice as cold as the depths of space, eyes sliced between her, her brothers, and then back to Jace, before centring on Sebastian. His lips thinned, and Clary could almost see the warring emotions within him: Sebastian had tried to kill Max, but he'd also tried to save him. . . "Why did you do it, then? What could you possibly have to gain?!

Sebastian's gaze was firm, but his lip trembled. "No more death." He said softly. "Just. . . no more."

Alec's jaw clenched, but Clary could see him visibly struggling to move the conversation on. "Well," he said. "I'm afraid that despite your spontaneous act of kindness are in vain, because there _will_ be more death, and the victims _will_ be more innocent children, unless we act against your father, instead of sitting here like a flock of pretty birds in a cage!"

There was nothing loud or demanding about Alec's words - of course not; it was Alec saying them. Clary had heard him described as quiet and stoic, with a frosty countenance, but when angry, sported a rage that rarely died, and instead patiently chipped at his patience like a stone-carver's pick. Instead, the words had the texture of sharp, brittle icicles, like javelins tossed at them.

Jon in front of Clary then, and it hit her what stances they were in: with the Morgenstern children huddled together protectively and facing off against the Lightwood children, who'd started to draw together like a net was being pulled taut. The air in the room was suddenly chilly, and Clary suppressed a shudder as she recognised the twisted expressions on the Lightwoods' faces: disgust.

Of course. They were being faced by a congregation of the children of a murderer. Who wouldn't be disgusted?

Jon finally said, "Who said anything about 'we'?"

The room stopped breathing. "What do you mean?" Jace pushed himself off the sofa and came to stand a little before Isabelle and Alec. Protecting them, Clary realised. From Sebastian. From Jonathan.

From her.

Her stomach roiled.

"Of course we're going to be a part of this," Jace continued speaking, shooting daggers at her brothers. He didn't look at her. "How could we not? Did you think that we'd after the multiple attacks on our family - both through the Clave and through the attempted murder of my little brother," -The words were flung at Sebastian, and the shame on his face darkened even further. Clary wanted to snap and snarl- "we would just stand by and watch as the one responsible and his associates may or may not be brought to justice?"

"We already have a plan," Clary cut in smoothly, and there was nothing of that shy, trembling girl she'd let herself become these past years in her voice as she said, "Whilst your offer for help is appreciated, it is not needed. _You_ are not needed."

Jace glared at her, and she was visibly shocked to find what she found in his tawny eyes: tears.

His irises shimmered with a faint gleam, like the waters of that pool in _Voyage of the Dawn T_ _reader_ that turned anything that entered it to gold. But as she watched, he closed his eyes, and a tear fell, fumbling amongst his eyelashes like it was desperately trying to go home, before streaking down his cheek in a line of silver, like a falling star.

A choking nose came from Alec, and Clary turned to find his gaze riveted to Jace's tears of his own starting to brew at the sight of his brother's distress.

These two boys. One had learned early on in his captivity from so long ago that to cry or to acknowledge the pain would only be to invite more in. And the other had taught himself not to cry, and that was the reason for his constant silence, because to acknowledge to his little sister or brother that he was hurting, or hopeless, would contradict what he was trying to tell them: _That everything will be okay._

And yet here they were, and all pretences were shattered.

Jace said, "Valentine killed my parents." He lifted his chin, and though he was a good way taller than Clary, he looked positively tiny. His voice was defeated as he said, "Are you going to deny me from giving them the last gift I can?"

Oddly enough, though Clary opened her mouth to acquiesce, it was Sebastian who said, "No. Of course not. We would never."

And though Clary knew that Sebastian was only referring to her and himself, she sneaked a glance at Jon, whose eyes were wide, not with anger at his self-proclaimed title as leader - Clary didn't know what had happened between him and Sebastian, but she knew that whatever it was had somehow cured her brother of his insufferable bossiness - but with something akin to awe.

"Well then." Isabelle spoke for the first time, her voice a little hoarse, and clapped her hands. "Should we discuss whatever brilliant plan you three have concocted then?"

Awkwardly, they formed a ring on the floor. Clary cast a look to where Maryse had been sitting when she'd last been down here, but apparently the matriarch had retired to her rooms to mourn the death of her ex-husband in peace. Clary found herself awkwardly tucked between Sebastian and Isabelle, as Jon began to explain.

It took a while.

It was at least twenty minutes to summarise a fairly straightforward plan, due in no small part to the constant interruptions of Alec and Jace's sceptical comments and raised objections. Clary wouldn't say it was a nuisance - although it seemed to continuously irk her brothers - because some of their questions were valid points.

But eventually, they came to an agreement, with Alec and Jace and Jon and Sebastian reluctantly deciding on the compromise, and everyone drifting away in dribs and drabs until only Isabelle and Clary were left in the living room, Isabelle claiming that she'd explored enough of the house for now, and Clary, feeling extremely overwhelmed by the rollercoaster ride the day had been, just wanting to relax for a moment before climbing the stairs back to her room. In hindsight, she chided herself for choosing the one furthest from the door.

But there was still one issue she had to address.

"You know," Clary said quietly, but the word reverberated with the power of a gong in the near-silent room. "Even if our plan is the best we can make it, there still begs the question of how we're going to sneak around the place and not get caught. Maia told me you knew someone who could help us with that."

Isabelle turned to her, dark brows creased. "I don't know what you're talking about."

And so Clary explained what she'd thought about, and gritted her teeth against the anguish she saw in the other girl's face. When she had finished speaking, Isabelle said lowly, viciously, "You can't ask me to do that. It's unfair of you to ask me to do that."

"I know," Clary said soothingly, coaxingly. "But I am." When Isabelle didn't answer, she pushed on, her voice cracking. "What happens tomorrow. . . it's everything. Make it or break it."

Isabelle's face made Clary look away briefly, if only because seeing the look on her face made her feel like she was intruding on something private, like a funeral for a person she'd never met before. When she looked back, Isabelle bit her lip and Clary thought she saw tears glimmer in her eyes.

But no; Isabelle would not let anyone see her cry. Not even for him.

The girl met Clary's eye, and simply said, "I don't know whether or not to be glad that I have my priorities straight."


	34. Pretty Pretty Things

"I suppose it's a bit too late to say that I don't want you getting involved?" Sebastian asked as they parked the car he'd been driving on a seemingly nondescript lane. His tone was wry, but he murmured it out of the corner of his mouth; enough of a warning for her to know that she needed to school her expression into an unmoved mask. If he didn't want to risk his comment being overheard, then she didn't want to risk her answer being, either.

"I'm pretty sure you already said it," she muttered back. He chuckled silently. "Multiple times. If it didn't work then, it won't work now."

And indeed, he had. He and Jon had asked her multiple times to stay out of it, even though their story that Sebastian had gone out looking for her, convinced she was still alive, would be far more authentic if there was evidence that he'd actually _found_ her. Plus, Valentine had always seemed to have a soft spot for her - meaning, he wouldn't impose the strict regime, expectations, or harsher punishments that he sometimes did on her brothers. If he found her poking about his office, she could get away with it under the guise of curiosity, whereas whilst Sebastian might have a plausible alibi for going through his things, being caught would incur a punishment that would definitely interfere with their plans.

"Doesn't mean I have to be happy about it," he muttered in response.

"I can make my own choices, Seb," she chided him. She fixed a smile on her face, one so bright that if one cared enough to look past the pasted-on joy, the façade would only be too obvious. "I appreciate your concern from when I was a little girl, but I'm not a little girl anymore. And I'm done playing games like one."

"More's the pity," he mused as she threw the car door open in an exaggerated flourish and swung her legs out. "Little Clary was far more susceptible to the idea of _not_ diving into danger head first."

Her hand shot out and pinched his side. He yelped, but she was out of the car before he had the chance to pinch her back.

Beaming her brilliant smile, Clary tucked a stray strand of crimson hair behind her ear, and tried not to flinch as the resemblance it bore to dripping blood. She heard the door slam as her face was turned away, towards the rows of pretty, picket-fenced houses they stood amongst. She disguised the subtle glance with a mask of innocent curiosity, but she narrowed her eyes ever so slightly as she scanned for any flaws in the façade that could give away that any one of these houses could be housing a positive army of assassins.

"That's because they're not here," her brother said quietly. She turned to give him a quizzical look. He laughed under his breath. "They're a good few miles away; I can't just waltz right up to them and expect entry. Since the fire, Valentine's suddenly become must stricter with the regulations. He'd kill me if he found out I drove right to the front door and led whoever might be tailing me right to the front door."

Clary was silent at the sheer, unadorned truth in that final statement. _He'd kill me._ Sebastian seemed to pick up the reason for her sudden silence, and gnawed at his lip as though he regretted his choice of words.

"Wipe that look off your face, by the way," he said abruptly, frowning at her. Her grin-grimace dropped. "No one's going to believe you're that naïve. You've just escaped a burning building and had to live off the streets for a few days, for goodness sake; you're not going to look like a simpering, unbroken doll after all you've been through. No one is that stupid."

Perhaps it was stupid, picking this fight right now, when they were about to stroll right into the lion's den, but she couldn't stop herself from saying softly, "You believed it for years."

He froze, but she kept walking. She'd made it to underneath the next lamp post - a wrought iron, perfectly arched one that fitted in with everything else on this pretty, pretty street - before she turned round the look at her brother. He stood frozen, feet planted shoulder width apart, his fists clenching and unclenching out of sync with one another. His horrified gaze was fixed on her, but his lips flickered like words came and went before he could shape them.

She just inclined her head further down the road, and said sweetly, "I suppose it's this way?"

Sebastian swallowed, and nodded. She didn't wait for him to follow as she kept walking.

* * *

Isabelle had heard about having one's heart in their throat, where you could feel your pulse hammering between your chin and collarbones, and how it blocked up both your airway and your oesophagus.

And indeed, her heart was in her throat now as she pushed open the gate and stepped onto the gravel drive. But it was also held precariously in her long pale fingers, from where she'd snatched it back from the brink of potential disaster, and tried to hold it steady and safe. And what she was doing now risked her handing it right back.

It was scarily easy to simply detach from her emotions and operate her arm on muscle memory as she rung the doorbell with a single sharp jab.

She swallowed against her mortification as she heard the footsteps sound. She fidgeted on the doorstep, the tip of her boot drawing small circles in the gravel as she waited.

The door swung open.

Simon used a single finger to shove his glasses up the bridge of his nose and squinted at her.

A beat.

 _"Isabelle?"_

She twirled an ebony lock at the nape of her neck round her finger.

"Hello, Simon."

He blinked. "What are you doing here?"

She swallowed again, and brought her hands down to her jacket pockets. "Well," she glanced behind her, then behind _him_ , into the house. As far as she could see, he was home alone, unless his older sister Rebecca was up in her room working on her latest project. "I have a favour to ask."

He didn't move. "A _favour_?" A look that resembled disgust crossed his face.

Isabelle could feel the desperation begin to gnaw at her gut, and it made her irritable as she snapped, "Yes. A favour. Now are you going to let me in or not?"

He sneered. Then his throat bobbed. He glanced behind him, opening the door slightly for him to lean on. Finally he looked back at her, head tilted, and surveyed her for a moment. She kept her hands in her pockets, and desperately tried to appear unconcerned. But she clenched her jaw at the look he gave her.

Eventually, he stepped aside, and jerked his chin at the corridor beyond. "Come in."

* * *

The house they arrived at appeared to be another old-fashioned one, with pristine upkeep in both the gardens and the building itself. Clary amused herself for a moment with the thought of Valentine sending highly trained killers, whose hands were washed in blood, out to prune the rose bushes, before she dispelled the image with a shake of her head, and let her faint smile drop. Now was not the time for jokes, nor was this a suitable topic to joke about.

Sebastian pulled out a key and jammed it into the doorframe like it'd mortally insulted him. Clary swallowed the wince that tried to creep onto her face. She'd known that her words had been a little _too_ harsh when she'd said them. She should be prepared to face the foul mood they'd put him into.

So she willed her face to remain a blank slate as he swung the door open and gestured. Clary stepped forward hesitantly. Although she knew that hidden axes swinging out to decapitate intruders wasn't Valentine's style, nor was it his style to be stupid enough to leave the headquarters of a home to a veritable coven of assassins unguarded.

But, as always, her father showed more of a flair for the security no one could see, and she made it down an unlit corridor to the grand staircase unchallenged. She looked around her.

The place was much larger than it appeared from the outside, Valentine's taste for the grand showing in every polished, elegantly curved banister and black and white mosaic design. It was dimly lit with a chandelier, the fake crystals bright and sharp, without a trace of dust. _New_. Of course it was new. All of this was new. Everything else had been burned to ashes and embers in the fire.

It hadn't hit her quite as keenly until now. Everything had been burned. Everything she owned, all the clothes, all the photos of her family as it had once been that she'd hoarded under her bed, all the books she'd read when she'd exhausted the fun to be had playing with herself, her desk, the chair she'd liked to spin her dizzy on even when she was really too old for such nonsense, her computer, the bed, the lamp Sebastian used to occasionally read to her by when his conscience became too much-

It was gone. It was all gone.

And although she knew it was petty, that she should just be grateful that both she and Sebastian and Jocelyn had made it out alive, that Jonathan _had_ technically saved her life-

She had never hated her brother more, for destroying a life simply because he wasn't in it.

 _He's your flesh and blood_ , a voice at the back of her head. _You're family. You're just like him._

But Valentine was her flesh and blood too, she reminded herself, fingernails digging into her palms. Her neck was beginning to ache from maintaining her accusatory gaze on the chandelier. Valentine was her family, too. And she wasn't like him. She refused to be like him.

Sebastian warily taped her shoulder, breaking her out of her vigil. Her nodded his head up the stairs, to where the upper floor was wreathed in shadows. "Let's go."

* * *

"What do you want."

Well, Isabelle thought bitterly, she had to give him credit for cutting straight to the point. He seemed to resent her presence in his house, despite the fact that he'd willingly let her in; his lip hadn't lost that disgusted curl to it that grew more pronounced whenever he looked at her, which was precisely what he seemed to be trying _not_ to do. They scanned the room, snagged on the play of light through the window that struck the carpet, observed the dust particles bobbing in the air, but seemed to steadfastly avoid meeting her gaze.

Although she would never admit it, it stung.

"I need your help."

This time, when a harsh laugh scraped its way out of Simon's throat. "Oh? And you couldn't go to anyone else for this help? What do you need? Someone to carry your shopping whilst you march all over the next foolish boy's heart like it's so much rubbish on the street?"

The jab was no deeper or more wounding than the others, but it struck something in her, like the other needles had found and embedded themselves in soft tissue, but this one found a button to detonate some sort of bomb. Isabelle found her mouth pressing into a hard line, found her back straightening like her spine was a whip someone had flicked. Her lips peeled back from her teeth to form words that were half snarl as she said, "I'm not that petty. And stop acting like what I did was both unreasonable and uncalled for. It was neither, and it was what was best for me at the time. It's not important, nor relevant to what's happening right now." She put her hands on her knees and leaned forward. "But this? _This_ is important. _This_ is relevant - not only to us, but to everyone in Alicante. It pertains to the murders that have been going around all these years."

Simon paled - even more so than he had when she'd cut into him for his spite. "Tell me you're joking. You can't be serious."

"You know the ones I'm talking about? Where the victims showed up with their throats slashed and cut from ear to ear? Every. Single. Time?" Her voice dropped to a hiss. "I and my family haven't been working to annihilate the killer all these years just for _you_ to come along with your reluctance and your petty selfish spiteful grudges and ruin it all. And now my brother's girlfriend and her brother are putting themselves at risk to make the final blow, and so help me, I won't tolerate your bigoted attitude."

"I thought Alec was gay." Simon said, with some surprise to his voice. "So. . . Jace? How did _he_ get himself one?"

"Mutual interests." Isabelle grunted noncommittally. This was not the time for this conversation. "Maia says you know her. But that isn't the point." Her hands moved to brace themselves on the cushion of the sofa, like she was getting ready to bolt at any second. "The point is, she's already done a lot of work for us, and now she and her brother are risking their own necks for the sake of all the necks that could get slashed in the future. So, _are you going to help me or not?_ "

Simon said carefully, "What is it you would have me do?"

* * *

They'd reached the third flight of stairs by the time Clary heard her father's shocked voice, "Clarissa?"

She froze.

She'd known this moment was coming. She'd known that she'd be expected to greet her father like a tearful, terrified little girl in need of comfort after her near death experience. She'd known that she'd have to conduct a civil conversation with him without screaming about the years of neglect, or the murders, or leaving her to be consumed by the flames.

So she did none of this. She hoped he presumed her flinch was just the shifting of fabric over her shoulder as his heavy hand settled there. She looked up and met his dark gaze.

Clary willed her lip to tremble, willed her chin to wobble, willed her eyes to shimmer with the gleam of promised tears. "Father?" She asked in a weak thread of a voice, the two syllables sliding along it and off the edge like a zip-wire that had been cut.

"Clarissa," he said again on a release of breath, and if she listened closely, she though she could detect a waver of relief in his voice. His hand moved to cup her face. "I'm so glad you're safe. Sebastian," he turned his head to her brother, who jumped to attention when his name was uttered. Whatever had softened in Valentine's gaze hardened again. "Take your sister up to the spare room and get her settled in. Lend her one of your mother's spare nightclothes to wear; we can go out and get her something for herself in the morning." He referred to Jocelyn in such a monotone, casual way that Clary felt physically sick. "I'll come up and speak to you both later, once I've finished work for the day." The fact he so easily called it "work" sickened her as well.

But Sebastian only nodded, sharp and clear. "Yes, Father."

Clary gritted her teeth as the weight of her father's hand fell away, and let her brother lead her up the stairs. They climbed for who knew how long - the house appeared to be much taller than it seemed at first appearance - and Clary remained lost in her head, her right hand rubbing the patch on her left shoulder that Valentine had gripped. His hold had been calm, reassuring - a gesture from father to daughter saying that _everything will be okay_. But his hands were stained with blood.

And Clary couldn't help but think that the more she had contact with him, the more that blood would spread over her torso and hands and face, an incriminating finger pointing to her as a criminal herself.

Sebastian, seeming to realise that she'd fallen behind, slowed, panting a little. She vaulted the last few stairs and ground to a halt beside him, pretending she didn't notice the side glances he shot he when he went to push open the only door on the landing.

The sun had already begun to slide into a set, and the large window the room had faced west, so a key of amber light struck the siblings as they stepped through the door. Clary's mouth dried as her gaze fell on her mother, still comatose in the bed in the centre of the room. She did not want to consider what the fact that her room faced west could possibly mean.

Sebastian didn't utter a word, just peeled off and began rummaging through the wardrobe in the corner to find a small set of pyjamas that might fit her. Clary approached the bed, each step echoing painfully loudly in the room, until she was at her mother's bedside. She ran her fingers up her forearm and hissed at how cold her mother's skin was. She flinched back.

And, before her astounded eyes, her mother flinched back as well.

Clary felt her gaze glued to the scene as her mother shifted in her sleep, the heart monitor she was rigged to beginning to beep with an even greater frequency.

And her eyes opened.


	35. Lost One

Clary was transfixed, couldn't look away, as her mother's green eyes, a shade so similar to her own, blinked, once, twice, as they cleared, then fastened on her.

Jocelyn sat up, gaze hungry, like she was devouring the sight of her daughter after so many years of not seeing at all.

Her voice was soft and hoarse as she said, "Clary."

Clary blinked, finally, and felt hot tears spill over her cheekbones. "Mum."

Jocelyn seemed to focus then, to find something in her daughter's face, because she suddenly sat up, gripping the headboard to support herself as she swayed. Her tone though, was low and steady and urgent. "Clary, listen to me. You have to get out of here, you understand? Find Luke. Jonathan's alive - find him too. He'll be with Luke. You have to get out, now, before he gets you too. Luke and Jon will explain-"

"They've already explained everything they know, dearest Mother," Sebastian drawled from behind Clary. The girl jumped out of her skin, and her mother did the same, her hand pressing against her heart. She looked at Sebastian and all the colour in her face drained away, leaving only chalk-white cheeks and lips, and wide, terrified eyes. A lock of scarlet hair fell across her forehead, like a streak of blood against snow.

"Sebastian." Jocelyn choked out. Her gaze flitted between Clary, seated on the edge of the bed and gazing at her with worried eyes, and her son, whose mouth was set in a hard, unforgiving line. Her lower lip trembled as she brought her hand up to it.

"Mum?" Clary asked, reaching out to take her hand. Jocelyn gave it willingly, seeming to relish the feel of Clary's warm hand against her cold one. "What's wrong?"

But she didn't break eye contact with her eldest son. "Whatever you do," she said slowly. "Whatever you do, however much you hate me now, however much you'll hate me once you hear what I have to say, you _cannot_ let this information reach Valentine's ears. He will kill you." Sebastian's face remained unmoved by the threat, until Jocelyn's gaze moved to Clary. "You too." She whispered, tears streaking down her face.

Sebastian shifted position behind her, and now Clary could hear his interest as he said, "So what is this destructive secret you're dying to tell us."

Clary didn't know whether he was trying to make a pun or not. She leaned forward anyway.

Jocelyn sank back against the pillows, and Clary felt a stab of frustration. "What is it?" She asked, even though her mother had just woken up from a year-long coma, even though she should probably rest and recuperate before explaining, even though they were in the heart of Valentine's operation and her father had promised to come and talk o her when he'd finished work and she had no idea when he'd actually _finish_ work- "Tell us everything."

Jocelyn lifted her eyes from where her left hand was knotted in the sheets and met Clary's. They looked unspeakably weary. "I know why Valentine's targets are who they are."

"Well, yeah," Sebastian snorted. "There's the massive computer that churns out random names."

Jocelyn shook her head. "No. It's not random, and there's a very specific science to it."

They waited.

Jocelyn obliged.

"Valentine was always a brilliant scientist. He could have gone on to revolutionise the way we do things, he was such a bright man, with such a fierce work ethic.

"He's always been stubborn in his beliefs, and he's always believed in nature over nurture - the idea that you're born with your talents, and what you're good at depends on your genetics - and firmly believed you would all turn out to be just as bright as him. After all, you had a genius father and mother who'd never really had to work for her good grades in school. What could go wrong?" She laughed mirthlessly.

"When we were just young parents, and you'd just been born, Clary, a man approached your father with a job opportunity. It was a government-funded scientific study into the reality of nature versus nurture, and took thousands of volunteers from all over the country, and studied their backgrounds and their genes and their strengths and weaknesses to find where the correlations lay.

"Valentine never managed to prove his beliefs; nature and nurture are just too tangled together in the average person that it's nigh on impossible to separate them. But he was dedicated, and he was brilliant, so not only did he look at each subject's present family, but their ancestors and their records. He found a genetic mutation in some, seemingly unconnected, people who were reported to be not only athletically superior, but intelligent, with near-eidetic memories and were incredibly quick learners. In short: a super human being.

"Sometimes, at least," Jocelyn continued. Sebastian had come round to sit on the opposite side of the bed to Clary, and was now entirely engrossed in the story. He even forgot to look resentful. "Other times this genetic mutation caused lifelong illnesses that the person had to live with. You see, the mutation manifested itself in the thyroid glands, on either side of the neck, which produce hormones that control several parts of your body. The people with the mutation had their thyroids irrevocably altered, sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worst.

"Valentine found out." She said, and the heart-wrenching finality in her mother's voice was, above all, what told Clary that whatever came next would not be pretty. "He found out, and he was a mixture of overjoyed and outraged. Here was the proof that he was not mad, that his ardent belief that our fates are fixed even before we're born by the dice throw that is our DNA could be his way of getting his opinions heard. Here was the kind of thing he'd been waiting for, that he would willingly - _happily_ , even - dedicate his life to studying.

"But on the other hand, he was jealous. So unspeakably jealous. Here there were these people with an edge over him that he could never climb, an advantage that he could never hope to surpass. He could study and study and study, as long as he wanted, but he could never replicate the ease with which they worked. And he hated it. He would rant and rave to me about it. He called them witches and warlocks and other things unspeakable that were less than complimentary. He said they were demons - that they weren't human." Jocelyn took a breath. "But he was wrong.

"He forgot that they _were_ human - just as much as anyone else. And so he failed to understand my sheer horror when I came home one day, and his lab was filled with vials of blood, and his journals with the scribblings of a maniac.

"By that point, I think, he was gone, The man I'd loved had gone mad, consumed by this. . . _obsession_. It was like he thought he was cleansing the world and levelling the playing field. He forgot that every sample he took and tested and filtered and strained had come from a breathing human, who'd lived and laughed and loved just as much as he had when he was nothing more than a brilliant student who genuinely cared about his work, and the people around him. And the worst thing was, he'd started to build himself a cult.

"People flocked to him, desperate to hear how they'd been wronged, how those who'd beaten them at their chosen crafts had cheated and gotten away with it. How the authorities refused to acknowledge the slight. And all the charisma and charm that bright and shining boy had possessed. . . it did its job. It even helped convince some high up members of the government to join his cause, which is how he never got caught. The Clave is rigged. It was all a sham." Jocelyn paused for breath, and eyed them exasperatedly. "But you already know that, no doubt.

"I wanted to act. I wanted to do something, _anything_ , that might stop the murders that grew more and more frequent with every new mind flocking to the cause. But you were barely two years old, Clary, and I had two other children to look after. And, like it or not, Valentine's job brought in money. I was between jobs, and even if I could bring myself to betray the man I'd once loved, and even if I'd gotten him thrown in prison for murder, I had nowhere to go. It would be the headlines everywhere, and I would have nowhere to go to harbour the three children of a serial killer, especially when I had no job, no livelihood, and all of Valentine's possessions would have been seized. So I kept quiet.

"Until he started training you and Jon to take over." Her voice broke, finally, as she addressed Sebastian. "And I knew I had to do something. So I contacted Luke, and tried to find a way to sabotage Valentine's plans and somehow teach you that this was wrong. Because if he raised you to believe it was _right_. . . I wouldn't be able to live with myself.

"But then Jon was just in the wrong place in the wrong time, and he became privy to Luke and I's discussions. At first I was terrified he'd sell me out to your father, but he didn't. And from then on he was helping me."

Clary didn't have to look away from Jocelyn's face to see the look of betrayal that crossed Sebastian's.

"Until the boat incident." Jocelyn's eyes began to fill with tears. "He'd toyed with the idea to me a few times, but I shut him down every time. He didn't - probably still doesn't - understand the hole that would rip in the family. As little as it felt like a family. So when he did it, I knew exactly what had happened. And why. But he didn't know all the facts.

"He didn't know why, exactly, I'd been so desperate to get out; he just knew that I was. And he didn't know that I'd been preparing for us all to leave, and that he effectively botched it by faking his death and making Valentine all the more watchful of his remaining family. So I was left with several bad options to conceal what I knew, the best of which was to send myself into a coma so I could never reveal it if I wanted to."

Clary swallowed. "Stop building it up, Mum. Just tell us this massive secret already."

"The genetic mutation that occasionally surfaces as unusual gifts? I have it. It runs in my family. And by extension," she poked her in the chest, "yours."

Clary drew in a breath.

On the surface, it sounded absurd that Jocelyn would be so worried. Yes, they had this oddity inside them that could cause them to be the targets of assassins. Yes, they could now be labelled as witches and warlocks and otherworldly demons. Yes, they were, in the eyes of the killers they were currently amongst, _different_.

But Valentine was their _father_.

He wouldn't kill his own children.

Would he?

Jocelyn evidently saw the turmoil on her face, because she shook her head mournfully. "He's mad, Clary." She whispered. "He's absolutely mad. Obsessed with this cause. He's no longer the man I married, who loved so fiercely and so, so brightly. He's lost."

"He would kill us?" Clary asked. Sebastian's silence told her the answer in itself, but she needed to hear it from her mother. Needed to hear it from someone who'd seen him crumble, piece by piece.

"He would kill us all." Her mother replied. "He would kill the world if he thought it had wronged him. He's lost."


	36. You Are A Killer

Sebastian looked up then, and met Clary's eye. "This doesn't change anything. It can't." His jaw clenched. "Do you understand?"

Clary swallowed, but remained silent.

" _Do you understand?_ "

"He'll kill us," she whispered. "Are you sure?" She addressed her mother, who watched her with shadowed eyes.

"I'm sure." Came the reply. "He's gone."

"Okay." Clary took a breath. "Okay." She tried to gather the obliterated pieces of her sense and piece them back together. "Okay. We keep going from here." She cut a glance to Sebastian. "Do you know if Izzy successfully convinced Simon to help us?"

Her brother ignored Jocelyn's querying look and chimed in, "No. Jon will text me when that happens. Or, I'll call him in a few minutes to tell him everything we've learned. But otherwise, for now, we wait."

"We wait?" She asked incredulously. "We wait and sit and stew in this dump of information we just received?"

"Clary," her brother said. "It's all we can do."

* * *

"So, what makes you so sure Simon can help us?" Jace demanded, shifting positions yet again.

It made him antsy, all this waiting. He'd been told that he couldn't participate in this huge plan the Morgenstern siblings had concocted - and he respected that, really, he did. . . but he hated this feeling of being so innately useless. He hated the idea that Clary and Sebastian were out there, putting themselves at risk, and claiming the revenge he'd sought after for so long. Hell, even _Isabelle_ was making herself useful, and going off to convince Rat face to help with some vital part of the plan - though _what_ , exactly, the boy could contribute was beyond Jace - so why was he suddenly the useless one?

"Did Simon or Isabelle or someone ever tell you how Simon's father died? I know it was very traumatic for him." Jon asked, and though, with his legs flung over the armrest of the sofa, his grip relaxed on a book, seeming calm and casual, his words belied his demeanour.

Jace had to blink to keep from confusing the tone of the subject. "No."

"Didn't you hear that charming little titbit Sebastian let slip earlier whilst we were discussing our glorious plan?" Jon asked again, and though his tone was disinterested, the grip on his book turned his knuckles white. " _Valentine killed the man who made his computer_. Killed him because knowledge about that computer, how to get in, how to operate it, is a valuable commodity. Very valuable indeed. And because such knowledge could lead to his potential downfall, my dearest father had the man who possessed it murdered. Slaughtered in the exact same way that those victims from the list his computer generates are.

"But what Valentine didn't bank on was the man's family." Jon's tone slowed, and became low and ominous. "He didn't realise that whilst his technician was building this do-all or end-all contraption, he was interacting with his two children, with his wife, on a daily basis. Who knows what details he might have let slip before his untimely death?"

"So you're saying," Jace demanded, his brain shooting straight through the loophole in Jon's words, "that we have no definitive proof that Simon can help us at all? That Sebastian and Clary have just entered that place to carry out some insane plan you concocted, with one of the vital parts of that plan uncertain, based on the knowledge that Simon's father was the one who made the thing we're trying to destroy?"

"Don't pretend to care more about my siblings than I do." Jon's voice lost it's carefree edge and became as cool and sharp as the edge of a knife. He put his book aside and flexed his hands, like he was imagining them curling into fists. "You think I'm not just as terrified as you are? But unlike you, I seem able to comprehend that I have no business telling them what to do or not do with their lives. I hold no sway, no power, over their own choices, and if they want to sacrifice themselves to go back into the arms of our murdering father and risk their lives to save countless others, then I have to respect that. I made my choices, and I have to let them make theirs, even if the outcome kills me. And you have no business telling her what to do either, _Jace Herondale,_ not when you made my sister feel like shit just for forgetting you exist for a moment!"

"I-"

"People are _dying_. Stop with that wounded, self-righteous look, and get your head out of the clouds. Let people focus on the big picture here. Yes, we all know you want revenge. But every. Single. Person here has been wronged by Valentine Morgenstern in some way, so all I have to say to you, is to get in line."

"What about you, Jonathan?" Jace asked quietly. "What did your father ever do to you?"

"He tried to make me a killer!" Jon's fists were clenched now, so hard it looked painful, but his voice was deathly soft. "He tried to make me a killer. And for that, I will never forgive him."

"You burned your family manor to the ground, Jon, with no thought for the people inside it." Jace told him. "You faked your death, and threw no regard to the devastating consequences it would have for your mother and siblings. And now you're sending the two people you claim to love so much to destroy a man's only livelihood." Jace held his chin high, and to his surprise, Jon made his gaze unflinchingly, those his own shone with the promise of tears. "Your father didn't _try_ to make you a killer, Jonathan Morgenstern. Through whatever hatred or compassion you feel for him, you are one."

* * *

"Do you think you could help us?" Isabelle asked, and let some of her desperation leak into her voice.

She had to admit it was nice, though, that Simon had ceased glaring at her like he wanted to set her on fire, and instead wore a calculating expression, one that told her he was (hopefully) pondering the matter at hand.

"I'm not sure." He admitted, though that scheming expression didn't leave his face. "But my dad left some of his notes in the attic, where he worked, after he died. We can skim through those and see if there's anything useful."

"Was this what your dad did for a living?" Isabelle asked. "Make computers?"

"I don't know what he did; I was too young when he died. But I guess so, apparently."

Isabelle's gaze drifted to the ceiling, like she could see past the paper lampshade, and the floors above her head, all the way to the old attic she and Simon and Maia had used to play hide and seek only a few years before. "Should we have a look?"

Simon shrugged his noncommittal, but Isabelle knew that feverish gleam to his eye. Knew it and loved it. He was curious. "Well, Rebecca and Mum are away for the day. I guess we could take a peek."

* * *

Alec was feeling just as restless as Jace, cooped up in this strange manor even as Isabelle went out to make some sort of bargain with Simon. But upon hearing the rather scathing conversation between his brother and Jonathan, he decided to just wander aimlessly round the manor than intrude on whatever moment they were having.

He heard the doorbell ring, and scurried to answer it, before one of the boys in the other room came storming out in a huff. But who he saw standing on the threshold took his breath after.

His boyfriend froze as they locked gazes, and the curve of his throat bobbed.

Magnus scratched the back of his neck idly. "Hi, Alec."

Never one to mince words, Alec knotted his lips together. His mind raced, searched, for an excuse that he could be here, before he landed on the more important question: what was _Magnus_ doing here?

He asked as much, but the penny dropped before he finished the sentence. "Ah."

His secretive behaviour, creeping away on their date from so long ago, as well as the cryptic mutter "I'm going to kill Jonathan." How he'd never seemed surprised by Alec's stress over the Clave, even if he didn't know what he was stressed about.

And one image was especially vivid in Alec's mind: Magnus's face when he met him at the hospital to visit Max, bloodless and lips wan, with the sort of devastation that only came from the loss of a vital part of your soul.

Magnus had barely known Max. Alec's secrecy over their relationship had kept his boyfriend far away from his little brother, who might have accidentally blabbed to his parents.

That look hadn't been personal loss. It had been the guilt of one who wished with all his heart he could have done something - _anything_ \- to avoid this outcome.

The silence stretched between them. "Ah."

Magnus broke first. "Alec, I-" but Alec held his hand up.

"Magnus, wait." He swallowed. "I don't blame you for the lying, the secrecy, any of it."

"You don't?" His boyfriend asked hoarsely, and something in him relaxed until his jovial grin was back in place. It made Alec grin back. "Please tell me there isn't a 'but'? Please please please?"

Alec even laughed at that. "There's no 'but'." He sighed, then stepped forward until there was no longer the doorway between them. He cupped his face in his hands. "I love you, Magnus, and I understand why you lied. I was working for the Clave; you couldn't divulge this sort of information. Who knew what I might let slip, even by accident? You told me all you could. It's not your fault you couldn't tell me more." He kissed him, slow and sweet.

Magnus was shaking as he pulled away, reaching up to cover his hands with his own. "I don't understand." He whispered. "This isn't like you, Alec; you hold grudges at secrecy, and rightly so. What changed?"

Alec's voice was solemn as he said, "These past few days since I've seen you, my sister ripped apart a long-lasting friendship and shut down a relationship that could be good for her before it even began. Don't even get me started on Jace's emotional entanglements; I don't want to find out what's up with him. I just got Max back, and even he seems pretty lost amongst all the shit that's going on." Magnus blinked; Alec rarely swore. "And my father just died, shortly after I found out how unfaithful he's been to my mother and our family." He didn't realise he was crying until Magnus reached out to wipe away a tear. "At least one of us needs to hold on."

"You are so," Magnus's voice cracked, " _so_ brave, Alec." He smiled. "What would I do without you?"

* * *

"So, your father wasn't exactly fond of keeping things tidy was he?" Isabelle observed as she clambered up through the trapdoor and into the clutter that lined the attic floor. "I mean, I get that it's been quite a few years, but surely he'd want his workspace, I don't know, _clean_ , whilst he was creating some sort of super computer?"

"From what you've told me, I don't think it was a super computer." He answered candidly, completely brushing over her dig at his father, though a flicker of hurt passed over his face. She flushed violently, ashamed, as she realised what she'd said. She ducked her head, and the fall of her hair hid her burning face from view. She should know better than to speak ill of the dead, especially if they were as close as a father. She cursed herself, even as Simon continued with his monologue, pointedly not looking at her. "It might have just been a computer with a specific task to do, but I don't think it was the sort of massive intellectual _thing_ you have in mind."

Isabelle opened her mouth to ask how he knew what was on her mind, before she shut it again with a snap, cheek burning even brighter than before. Of course he knew what she was thinking. He knew her.

"So, if it's all either stacked away in boxes, levelled under three feet of dust," because indeed, it didn't look as though anyone had set foot up here in years, "or scattered amongst the main clutter, how do you know what you're looking for?"

"I don't." Simon replied candidly, but his hands didn't stop rifling through the boxes anyway. He dug out a small canister, and shook it. A few things rattled - a few loose coins, a whistle, a plastic pencil sharpener - and into his palm dropped a memory stick.

It was plain black, unembellished save for the red sticker wrapped around the base. Simon flipped it in his hands.

" _But_ , I do remember that whilst he never had a penchant for tidiness, he wasn't stupid enough to have no way of organising his things. I also remember that just before he died, he was working on a project for about six months that he colour coded red." He tossed her the stick. "Let's plug that in the computer and see what it rolls out with."

Isabelle caught it, and kept it clutched in her palm as they descended the ladder again and went to Simon's room, where he logged onto his computer and sat in the chair in front of his desk, tapping his fingers impatiently. Devoid of anything to do, Isabelle looked around.

His room was exactly as she remembered it, with various posters of the books and films he liked to watch stuck up on the walls, and his clothes scattered at the foot of the bed. Seeing as there was nowhere for her to sit, she stood rather than perch on the edge of the bed. For some reason that would feel oddly personal, though she'd done it a hundred times before. So instead she just hovered there whilst she waited for the computer to boot up.

Amidst his tapping, Simon raised an eyebrow at her. "You can sit down, you know."

She debated voicing her mixed feelings on the topic, but decided she'd messed up enough and just bit her tongue. She sat down with a plonk. Simon turned back to the computer.

She peered over his shoulder at the sharp intake of breath. "What?"

He scrolled through the document that had opened up on the screen. "This isn't pans for a computer or anything like that," he said. "It's a list of names. Families. Diagrams of family trees stretching back to the 1950s, and no earlier." He touched the screen, like he was trying to reach back in time. He shook his head. "I don't understand-"

"Your father was a genealogist." Isabelle observed with a slight smile. "But what does this have to do with Valentine?"

It was then that her phone began to ring. It was Jon, and when she answered it, he explained everything his brother had told him.


	37. Almost Finale

"So, my father was a genealogist," Simon began, "who compiled a list of people for Valentine to _kill_? And now we're trying to destroy the list he spent so long creating?" He shook his head. "I won't believe this. I refuse to believe this. He wouldn't have handed those identities over like pigs for slaughter."

"Simon," Isabelle admonished. "You never even knew the man. Not well, at least." She pressed her lips together. She knew she was being insensitive, but Simon was drifting into delusional thoughts, and it was her job to yank him back to earth. "And from what I've heard, Valentine is _very_ charismatic. For all we know, your father hated those with the genetic mutation - I think Jon called them Nephilim - just as much as he did. And if not, then a wife and two children is an easy item of blackmail."

Isabelle saw the moment her words sink in. Simon clenched his fists, which had begun to shake. But his voice was clear - contemplative - as he said, "So, Max was targeted? He's Nephilim?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Yes. What of it?"

"He's your brother, Isabelle." Simon said, and she bristled at his tone, like he was speaking to an idiotic child. "Odds are, if he's Nephilim, you are too."

"That's not important right now." Isabelle snapped, but her heart hand begun to race at the thought. That she was in this much more danger than she thought. . .

"Of course it's important!" He shouted, standing very suddenly and sending various stationery tumbling across his desk. "It's important, because you might _die_ , Isabelle! Has that not occurred to you yet!"

"Of course I've realised it!" She shouted back. A fierce, giddy laugh bubbled in her throat and she squashed it. Still, she couldn't deny how _good_ this felt, shouting again, letting out all the angst that had slowly been accumulating. "Of course I've realised it, and of course I'm afraid. Hell, you think I'm not?" She ran her hands through her hair. "I am _terrified_ , Simon. Absolutely _terrified_. For me, for my family, for Maia, for _you_. But I _have_ to look past it, because otherwise more people will die, and I will. Not. Accept. That."

Simon was silent for a long time; so long her composure began to crack. His eyes shone as he looked at her then, took in the tears sliding down her cheeks, the brows creased as though worry was a stone weighing them down like it was suspended on a tightrope. "You're afraid?"

She nodded then, and it as like her body made the decision to move before she did. He apparently had the same problem, because a moment later she was gripping his shoulders and they were kissing each other with everything they had.

They broke away when the intensity got too much, and Isabelle fixed her gaze on something - _anything_ \- over Simon's shoulder. It landed on the computer, and the still open document displayed on the screen, and she absently read a single name before a thought clicked into place,

The name was _Trueblood._

Isabelle was in Simon's chair before she recalled moving, leaving the boy himself standing awkwardly behind her. She raced through the document, eyes scanning over her mother's family tree, then hers, finding names both familiar and alien staring back up at her. Then she did the same for the Lightwood family.

But not once was there a mention of any Lightwood on that list, other than herself, Alec and Max.

"Isabelle?" Simon had regained his composure and was watching her work in a confused frenzy. "What did you find?"

"My father was murdered by the same assassins who tried to kill Max, presumably for the same reason." She stated slowly, eyes widening as she went on. "But there's no mention of him or his bloodline in these records. He's not Nephilim."

"So?" Simon's brow was furrowed.

"So, why did they kill him? I'd understand if he'd walked out of the Clave alongside us, but the fact is, he didn't. He remained loyal to the cause until the end. So why was he killed?"

Silence dropped like a pin.

It was Simon who finally broke it as he said, staring into space, frowning, "It appears that the moment we think with understand this messed up situation, something else is uncovered that proves we don't."

* * *

"So, in short," Jon summarised, rubbing his temples. "You two are telling me that not only did your father _not_ create the computer, but rather simply gave Valentine a _list_? One that my esteemed father deemed secret enough to warrant slaughtering the man who'd given it to him? Oh, and also, you're absolutely no help to my siblings because _you have no idea how to get them to do whatever it is they need to do?"_

"They'll need to wipe any of this data from Valentine's computer, and destroy any hard drives or disks he might keep it on." Simon said. "We have the memory stick, which we can destroy ourselves, but our priority needs to be getting that information out of his hands." Isabelle didn't think she was imagining the worried look that flickered to her for a moment.

" _'We'. 'Our'._ " Jon sneered at him. "Since when were you a part of this? We only asked for your help because you might have some useful information for us, but now we've find out that you're no use whatsoever, why are you still here, other than to follow Isabelle around like a lovesick pup?"

Isabelle swallowed as Simon flushed. "Enough." She cut in. She glared daggers at the blond in front of her. "No need to be an arsehole. We didn't know what we'd find, and we can't change the truth. Just because _you_ made the wrong assumption, doesn't mean you get to treat Simon like shit."

Jon sighed, and passed a hand over his face. "Fine." He didn't apologise. "I'll call Sebastian and see where we need to go from here." He cast a dry look at Simon. "You do. . . whatever. I guess that now you're here you have the right to stay."

* * *

Sebastian swore, low and vicious.

Clary looked up, startled. Throughout everything, she'd never heard her brother swear with such vigour. And yet here he was, muttering a jumbled mix of unintelligible language and curse words under his breath as he hung up the phone.

They were in the room that had been assigned to Clary once they'd come in. The sun had just collapsed into the skyline, and they'd stumbled upstairs to find a note from their father lying on the bed, saying that he'd been regrettably called away for the night and couldn't join them for dinner. Grateful to avoid an interrogation, Clary had just sighed with relief and flopped onto the bed. Sebastian hadn't left, but she'd been unresponsive to all his attempts at starting a conversation until his phone began to ring.

"There's been a slight change of plan."

Immediately her throat dried up. "How 'slight'?"

"As in, we're not even entirely sure what we're looking for anymore."

Her tongue was made of sandpaper. "What? How?"

"Clary," Sebastian turned then, and met her eyes. "If you want to pull out now, you can. I'm sure we can arrange a way for you to return to Jace and the Lightwoods unharmed, and you don't need to follow through with this absurd change of plan-"

"I'm going to stop you right there with my previous answer," she cut him off, standing from the bed in a huff. " _No_. Stop treating me like a child." She waved her hand. "Now, explain this change of plan."

He blinked. "Alright then." He swallowed. "Simon and Isabelle discovered that in fact it _wasn't_ a computer that Simon's father designed. Remember what Jocelyn said about the Nephilim, and how it's an inheritable trait?" He waited for her to nod before continuing with his story, staring at his hands in a sort of ghostly horror. "Simon's father created list upon list of family trees, and created multiple copies of each one. He traced lineages back to the original event, to find who was present, and marked everyone within a hundred mile radius who had the possibility of being Nephilim. So now, instead of simply destroying the computer, we have to hack into it and erase any digital records, then pass on any physical records to Luke to be disposed of."

Her heart began to beat faster and faster and faster. "Ah."

"If you don't think you can do it, or want to help, I'm sure you can-"

"Do you have a computer?" She asked, acting as though he hadn't said anything.

"What?"

"Valentine trusts you, right? Do you have your own computer?"

His confusion was evident on his face. "Yes."

She smiled, and he just looked more confused. "Perfect."

* * *

"So, what makes you so sure you'll be able to do this?" Sebastian asked for the umpteenth time, even as he tapped away at the keys to his computer and unlocked it.

She rolled her eyes. "I've done it before."

 _"What?"_

"You heard me."

 _"How?"_

"You know that I managed to sneak around the manor without getting caught. You think I didn't know about that extensive security system Valentine rigged the place with, that was _perfectly_ designed to play on the manor's out of date design, so no one would think there were cameras watching them? I had years confined to my room, _politely_ discouraged from wandering the house; you really think I wouldn't, _casually_ even, try to hack it? Just for fun?"

"There's no way-"

"Then explain how I did. Explain how I, a mere mortal girl, managed to sneak around the manor for years without getting caught. Explain how Jon was able to set the fire and get away with it. Just because you claim it's impossible, doesn't mean it is." He glanced up from the computer then; the light from the screen lit up the hurt expression on his face. He passed it to her, and she opened up the files she'd need. "He's not some immortal god, Sebastian, no matter what you think of him."

Her brother's bottom lip quivered but by the time he leaned over her shoulder to watch her work, the expression had dropped from his face, only to be replaced by amusement. "So you could've technically gotten into my computer without me going to all the effort of typing in the password."

"I felt like being courteous." She shared a grin with him. "But yeah, effectively. Solitude is a fine teacher." She tapped a few more keys, then set the computer aside. "I'm done."

"Oh." Silence stretched between them. It was like a dropped egg; anticipatory quiet as it fell, followed by mess and noise when it shattered. "So what now? Do we just waltz right into his office in the dead of night and hack into his computer as well?"

"I will." Clary answered. "You're coming with me to search through the drawers and cabinets for any hard drives or paper copies. We'll get them to Luke as soon as possible, and he'll destroy them."

Her brother grunted, but raised no objection.

It was almost insultingly easy to sneak down the myriad of stairs and into Valentine's office. They passed no assassins or guards or underlings, and their muted footsteps was the only sound there. Clary had to rely on Sebastian's muttered warnings of where each flight of stairs began and ended, as neither of them dared risk a light in the dark, and she clutched the banister so hard she felt it must crack from the force of it.

"Here," was the only word Sebastian muttered when they paused outside a door that just looked identical to all the others.

"It looks just the same as the rest."

"That's the entire point, Clarissa." His tone had sharpened with sarcasm, and she caught herself wondering whether he was as fine with her rant from earlier as he let on. "Most of these rooms are empty, or used for storage anyway. We've only been here a few days; you really think he'll have had the time to replace everything destroyed in the fire and set it up all ready to use in that time?"

She chose to ignore his comment, and tried the door. It didn't budge. "It's locked."

"I wonder why."

"So the sarcasm's staying then, I see."

"Step aside, Clary; we don't have time for petty arguments. Nor is it practical. Father has a habit of getting up at random moments in the middle of the night and working until dawn."

"Then why did we decide to do this in the middle of the night? Why not during the day when he and his underlings are out somewhere?"

"Out killing someone you mean? Sorry, but I don't think that fits with your morals. Now let me get at the lock so I can pick it."

"You can pick locks?" she asked, but stepped aside anyway. She realised she'd said it in her normal voice, and not the reasonable hushed whisper, and clamped her hand over her mouth.

"It's a necessary skill of being an assassin, you know. Most victims would prefer to lock you out than let you in."

He said the words flippantly, but he also pointedly turned his face away, so she missed whatever expression crossed his face. All she had to go on about his reaction was the tightness of his shoulders, and his tone, harshly clipped, as the door swung inward. "There we go."

Only once they were inside, the door firmly shut with a soft click, the gap between the floor and the door jammed with Sebastian's jacket, did Clary switch the light on.

The room was meticulous, as anything under the supervision of Valentine Morgenstern would be, but there were unmistakeable signs of short-term residence. Papers sat in their ranks on the desk, but they weren't as ordered as Clary had observed in her nightly trips around the manor. The chair was plain and stiff backed and unadorned, with none of the grandeur Valentine praised and revered. The desk looked like it would hardly hold up under the sheer weight of the papers, and the light switch Clary flicked turned on a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, with no lampshade.

The computer was the centrepiece on the desk, and Clary made a beeline for it. She was planted in the seat with her hands whizzing over the keys before her brother could blink, though he swiftly caught on and began rifling through the drawers upon drawers of files.

The time passed, but she couldn't get in. The computer was carefully coded, in a completely different way to the security system, and it got increasingly complex the further into it she got. Sebastian's soft cries of frustration next to her told her he was making no more progress than she was.

The hour grew later and later, and through the tiny window just behind the desk Clary watched the moon recede and the sun begin to stain the sky lilac. Exhaustion dogged her movements, and the movement of her hands became sluggish, until she fell forward and caught herself before she slammed her face into the keys. She laid her head on the wood of the desk instead, and sighed. Sebastian's own movements slowed slightly, as though in acknowledgement.

Then a rhythmic pounding made them stiffen. Heavy, two beat pattern, consistent. Footsteps. They echoed along the corridor, then stopped just outside the door. The jangling of keys; the sound of one being inserted into a lock. The slow opening of a door.

Her father's face peering into the room, taking in his two children, exhausted and hopeless, in the middle of ruining his entire livelihood.

And although Clary knew that everything was falling apart all the more the longer he looked at them, she couldn't help but notice the silver hairs on his head, or the wrinkles on his face. He looked even more tired than they undoubtably did.

It was Valentine who broke the silence in the end.

"Sebastian? Clarissa? What are you two doing here?"

Then he glanced at the computer screen, and the files in disarray, and his face drained of colour. "You didn't."

They said nothing.

He shook his head in shock, his eyes wide with terror. "You didn't."


	38. Long Last Last Love

Clary's heart stopped beating altogether.

She couldn't breathe.

She felt Sebastian tense next to her, ready to mobilise, ready to fight, ready to run. But there was nothing to be done; they'd been inactive for too long. Her father's eyes roved around the room, taking in the evidence of their crimes. His face seemed to get paler by the minute. He pressed his lips tightly together.

After a moment Clary realised it was to keep them from trembling.

Her father staggered forwards, and Clary stood up hastily, Sebastian moving with fluid grace out of the way as Valentine took the seat she'd just vacated.

Clary backed away until her spine collided with the wall, and she scrunched her eyes shut as she waited for the blow to fall.

"You have to get out of here."

She snapped her eyes open. Gaping at her father, she choked out, "What?"

He reiterated it. "You have to get out of here. If they find out what you've done, they'll kill you."

"What? _They? Who_ will kill us? You're the one who's leading a veritable army of assassins; aren't you the one doing all the killing around here?"

Clary felt her mouth opening and the words spilling out in a fit of energy, and by the time she'd clamped her mouth shut again her father's face had steeled. But his tone was oddly reminiscent as he said, "I should've known you'd know about the family business. You always were smarter than I'd give you credit for."

"You are _not_ my family." She answered heatedly. In a flash of sense, she spotted Sebastian's face from across the room, so pale he seemed to blend into the beige wall. "And answer the question!"

"I, contrary to what you seem to believe, am not the leader of the Circle." Valentine cut out, then his attention drifted to the screen, and he hastily turned towards it and began undoing everything Clary had done. He was still tapping at the keys as he said, "I simply provide the venue, work the computers, and act as the face of it. The real mastermind behind it all doesn't like to be named, so I get paid extra for putting my neck on the line and pretending to be him. How do you think we managed to keep the manor all these years? There's no way I could've afforded it's upkeep otherwise."

He finished what he was doing, and shut down the computer. He stood up. "Now, I don't know what foolish heroism you two think you're doing by coming in here, but unless you want to be killed, I suggest you leave and let me act like nothing ever happened." His eyes found Sebastian's. "I'll talk to you in the morning, Sebastian."

"No." Her brother spoke for the first time, and the word choked out of his throat. It pained Clary to see how frightened of their father he was. "No." He moved to stand in front of the door, and blocked Valentine's exit. "I won't let you leave." His voice shook. "I won't let you leave because unless the records are found and destroyed more innocent people will die!"

" _You_ will die if he finds you here!" Valentine said, his voice angry now. "I won't let you risk your life just so you can call yourself a hero! These people," he explained, waving a had at the computer. "These people, _Nephilim_ , they are a parasite. They are less than us, because they believe they are more. When they have the chance, they will beat you at survival at every possible turn, until only a race of them remains, and all of the pure humans have been vanquished."

" _These people_ are in this room, Father." Clary interrupted. Her mouth was dry as black eyes narrowed on her. But she steeled her nerve and stepped in front of the door as well, next to her brother. "Mum has the mutation. She's Nephilim. And so are we." She had to swallow to keep from rasping. "She told us so."

These words seemed to hit Valentine like a physical blow, and he went staggering back into the chair he'd been sitting in only moments before. "What?"

"You heard me." Clary dared a step forward. "I don't know how she knows, but she's awake, and she told us we're Nephilim." She felt her hammer take up a hammer to her throat; disgruntled beat trying to shake the words out of her. She swallowed again, and said, "So we're not doing this just so we can call ourselves heroes, as you so kindly put it; we're doing it because we don't want to die!"

Her father's breathing was heavy, and two bright red spots appeared on his face as though he'd been hit. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his temple.

"You have _no idea_ how poor your timing was." His voice was hoarse, breaths coming slow and laboured. "He's coming today. In a few hours."

He stood, and an expression of anguish contorted his face. He raked his hands through his hair, then sat down again.

"He comes, sometimes, just to check on things, and to make sure everything's running slowly. I never let you know about it," Valentine nodded at Sebastian, "because I wanted you to stay out of the way. I didn't want you crossing paths with him. Malachi's a dangerous man, and he can sniff disobedience from a mile away-"

"Malachi?" Clary asked, before she could stop herself. _So the plot thickens. . ._

Valentine froze. He looked at Clary then, and for an instant she revelled in, seemed to _see_ her.

He laughed softly.

"You knew." He shook his head. "I should've known. The leak." He rubbed his brow. "The only person I never saw." He shok his head again. "So many questions, so little time. . ."

Silence fell. The rising sun continued its ascent until a key of light struck Valentine's pupil, and it seemed to break him out of his stupor.

"So, let me get this clear. You children and your mother are technically on that list, and when Malachi comes and expects to receive another name for me to dispatch my assassins to kill, it could be any one of you that comes up. And then he'd expect me, being a fanatically loyal member of the cause, to renounce you as my relations and slaughter you all, because if one of you has the mutation, logic follows that the rest of you might. If I don't, it's a sign of disloyalty, and he'll kill me." He clutched the armrests of the chair with bruising force. "And I could take that risk, and hope it's not your name, or I can wipe the computer and give you the hard copies of the files, so you can do away with them, then improvise what to do when Malachi comes, and hope he doesn't kill me for it."

He looked over at the two of them, then back at the computer, then down at his own hands. Clary wondered if he could see the ghostly blood on them.

Then he turned towards the computer, and began to type in a password.

"What?" Clary jolted forwards at the raw shock in her brother's voice as he said it.

Valentine didn't take his eyes off the screen, but Clary noticed his eyes shining, and his eyelashes growing damp. "I've already lost one son. I don't want to lose another." His gaze cut towards Clary. "Or a daughter." He finished off what he was doing, and slumped back into his chair, passing a hand in front of his face. It was done.

"For what it's worth," he added. "I'm sorry that I was so distant all that years that you thought I would kill you. I'm sorry I hated you - hated your kind. I'm sorry I isolated you. I'm sorry for what a bad person I am."

Clary's breath was glued to the back of her throat. What could she say in response to that? 'You're not a bad person'? But he was, and that was the most heart-breaking thing: The realisation that even monsters have hearts.

 _Jon's still alive_. That was what she could say. But would that hurt any less? Would the knowledge that he'd survived, but also almost killed them all and had hated Valentine's guts ever since?

But it was the truth. The truth deserves to be heard.

She opened her mouth, but Valentine had looked out of the window, and his lips were wan. "He coming." He looked back. "Quickly!" He yanked open a draw they hadn't searched yet and pulled out a sheaf of documents and discs. He whipped his head round wildly as they all came spilling out, and grabbed a plastic bag sitting in the corner from when he'd been carrying things in. Sebastian had dived for the floor, and Clary kneeled down next to him to help shove the scattered items into the proffered bag.

"All my records were destroyed in the fire," Valentine explained in hushed tones. "Malachi gave me his and hasn't gotten round to getting copies made yet."

"Is it true you killed Simon's dad to get these?" Clary hissed. Valentine faltered, which she took as answer enough. She gave a scoff of disgust.

The sound of the doorbell clanging echoed up the hallway, as did the scuffling feet of whoever was going to answer it.

Valentine thrust the bag at her. "Take it. Walk down the stairs and out of the house - you're dressed in clothes to go out, anyway. If you pass him on the way down, act like you have every right to be here. He knows you do, so don't blow it." After a quick glance at Sebastian, Clary nodded her affirmation.

When they stood up, there was a queer, dreamy look in her father's eyes. "Maybe I'll go and say goodbye to Jocelyn before he realises just how royally I've betrayed him." Then his eyes cut back to them, and he near-shoved them out the door.

Clary turned just in time to see Valentine pass something to Sebastian and whisper a few words in his ear. Her brother trembled, but nodded, jaw set.

Her father went upstairs, whilst she and her brother went downstairs, and she couldn't resist the urge to linger for a moment. She heard voices from above them - her mother's room. Husband and wife, reunited once more. She wondered how well it would go, how her mother would look at her father when she finally opened her eyes.

Clary had to resist the urge to tiptoe as they walked, but that would have looked suspicious. She clutched her bag in a death grip as they cleared one flight of stairs, then her heart turned tail and ran as they started on the next and passed a terrifying looking man.

In the dim light of the early morning, his eyes were dark, and they surveyed them with a sort of oppressive curiosity. Nevertheless, he stepped aside and let them past, though Clary could feel his eyes on them until they were out of sight. Malachi. They'd passed him.

They made it to the door, and only Sebastian's surreptitious glance over their shoulders seemed out of the ordinary. Then they were out.

The square little gardens that adorned the fronts of the houses in that row were sprinkled in dew that morning, and Clary let a breath of cold air scourge her lungs. Her shoulders were just relaxing when the gunshots rang out.

There were two of them, one directly after the other, barely space for a breath between them.

Her heart stuttered.

Sebastian lunged, like he'd been tightly wound and this was the snap, and grabbed her, dragging her behind him. He looked around wildly, then they looked up, just in time to see the window Clary calculated must be the one to her father's office shatter, and a bulky body kicked out.

It collided with the ground with an ugly thud, and Clary retched at the sight of the crimson blood spill out into the green green grass, like it was staining a uniform. Her father had landed face up, and his features were arranged into an expression of serenity. What had he been thinking in his last moments? About the wife he'd only just seen wake up? About the children he'd given everything up for?

Her eyes were dragged from the corpse back to the window by some instinct, and she flinched as she beheld Malachi standing there. She saw the realisation collapse his features, then he was roaring at them to stop, roaring at the others to chase after them-

Sebastian yanked at her arm and they ran, their feet thudding the dew-slick pavement of a respectable neighbourhood like a band of thieves fleeing. At some point her brother's hand tore out of hers, and a few steps later she whipped her head round and saw with mounting horror through the hair matted to her face as he sprinted back and lifted whatever it was Valentine had given him before they'd left-

Sebastian lifted the gun and fired at the figure still silhouetted in the window. Once. Twice. Thrice.

Some tether to reality snapped in Clary then, and there was nothing but a buzzing in her ears as Sebastian sprinted back towards her, screaming to _run run run_ but all she could see was his mouth moving and all she could hear was this buzzing and everything was going to hell and Sebastian was grabbing her arm and dragging her along with him and her legs were working on autopilot and she was numb to the cold air slicing at her face and she came to a realisation.

They could run all they liked.

Malachi was dead. They could run from the assassins and they would survive and Malachi and Valentine were both dead and neither of them could get to them ever again.

But it didn't matter. Because no matter where she ran, no matter where she hid, she couldn't escape the fact that her life was in pieces on the floor, and her only family was running next to her cursing, and that no matter how isolated she'd been before, she'd never been more alone in this wide wicked world than she was now.


	39. Epilogue

**Possible trigger warning for PTSD and dark thoughts below.**

 **So here it is, after a year and just under two months we've finally reached the end of His Apple Girl. This was my first story on Fanfiction (well, second, but I deleted my first two weeks after I published it so...) and I just can't believe this is the end. I know the updating got _really_ spotty in some places, so I'd just like to take the chance to thank everyone who stuck with me through reading this.**

 **Enjoy the last chapter!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own TMI.**

* * *

Clary still heard the gunshots in her dreams.

Years later, she would recall how familiar they became, a staple in the ever changing landscape of her darkest nightmares. She would remember the days she woke up and ran to the bathroom before hurling her guts up and trying to breathe as her body was racked with shudders. She would lean back against the wall, half sobbing half shaking, and bury her face in her knees.

Sometimes in the dreams Valentine or Malachi was the one holding the gun, and the bullets would barrel into _her_. She would fall, punctured heart racing, broken neck twisting violently, until she awoke in a tangle of sheets and had to extricate herself in order to get to the bathroom before it came roaring up.

Sometimes, she was terrified of her brother. The distraught expression he'd worn on the night would be contorted into bloodlust and violence, and it would scare her until she was running and running and running even faster than she had in the other dreams, and it hurt all the more as the pain ripped up her shoulder and through her neck and she would wake in cold sweat and flushed cheeks.

Whenever that happened, she would scream if anyone tried to come near her.

The worst ones, though were undoubtedly when she was holding the gun, and she could see her parents kneeling in front of her, and there was a cold cold voice she somehow instinctively knew was meant to be Malachi whispering in her ear _do it do it do it._

 _They're killers_ , the voice would whisper. Her grip would tighten. _One directly, one by inaction and foolishness. Do they really deserve to live when so many of their targets have died?_

Sometimes she pulled the trigger and saw blood blossom across her vision, and heard an entirely fictional evil laugh stab at her eardrums. Sometimes she turned the gun on herself, and pain exploded in her chest, and when she was awake she would hack and cough and cry but her chest would still be painfully tight and she couldn't rid herself of the memory.

Sometimes.

That was the issue.

She knew Jace and the Lightwoods wanted to help. But they didn't know how. When they heard her scream, they couldn't tell whether it was one of those days when the thing she needed most was someone to hold her hair back as she retched, or to hug her and murmur that she was safe, she was alive, she was free. Nor could they tell what days would bring her screaming at the very sight of another human being until the entire household was awake.

Sebastian had the nightmares just as much as Clary did, but she knew they were much worse than hers, and undoubtably with more guilt. After all, he'd been the one to physically pull the trigger and end a man's life. He'd been the one who'd always been overlooked and deemed unworthy, until he believed it himself.

But he never let it show. If Clary hadn't been awake at ungodly hours of the morning and heard him sobbing to himself, or if she hadn't been purposefully looking for the shadowed, hollow eyes she knew were lurking somewhere in his gaunt face, she wouldn't have noticed. If she hadn't seen his face as he pulled the trigger, and known what horrors the feel of cool metal between his fingers might stir up, she wouldn't have noticed as all his hoodies and jackets and jeans with zips were replaced with woolly jumpers or trousers, until nothing he wore was metal. She wouldn't have noticed the minute flinch he gave every time someone slammed the door.

To be honest, she felt it too. Loud noises were too much like the series of bangs that had shattered her world into irreparable pieces, and every one made her heart pound, her mouth dry, and her brain start replaying images of that night, like it was put on repeat and all she could ever do was hit pause.

Eventually, Jace caught onto the problem, and quietly advised the others not to get too enthusiastic with their celebrations.

Once they'd made it back to the manor that night, both the siblings were still shaking. No, Clary thought at the time; the world was shaking around them, and they'd been shocked into stillness.

Jon had been ready to receive the documents and pass them on to Luke the moment they staggered in. He assessed them with a frank gaze, and in his concern immediately looked at Clary. Her head was spinning but she reached out to take Sebastian's hand and squeezed it, taking a shuddering breath that seemed to drop to the floor once she'd exhaled and anchor her there. She kept a hold of her brother's hand as she calmly but slowly explained the events of the night to her other brother, whose gaze, identical to her own, looked far too hard and saw far too much. He nodded.

How he felt about the news that Valentine wasn't so evil after all, Clary didn't know. But she was, if not grateful, then glad he hid it, because she didn't think she could handle any more questions about what had transpired.

What had happened in the past, should stay in the past.

So they were let out without another word, and in later years Clary would be proud of herself for going on a sudden whim and turning towards her brother and saying, "I want nothing to do with this anymore."

He raised an eyebrow, but looked. . . hurt.

"I mean it. I don't want to be involved. I don't want to have to go through anything like that ever again. When one of Malachi's underlings hires and murders another genealogist to rebuild that list, as they undoubtably will, find someone else to right the wrongs. Because I am _gone_."

He nodded. "As you wish."

It was such a small, easy thing to do, but it made her feel so much better.

Shortly after that, Sebastian told her what Valentine had muttered to him in the final moments. She'd swallowed, creased her brow, and asked why he was telling her of all people. He asked her to be the one to pass on the message. As she saw fit, was the part he added.

She had balked at the idea of addressing that topic with any of them, but it was her father's last request, and as awful a man as he had been, she felt urged to respect his sacrifice by doing this one small deed for him.

So, several weeks later, as the sort of courage needed to fulfil this task wasn't something one mustered easily, she sought out Jace, and found him reading in the living room, a bowl of fruit sitting on the table beside him. He looked up and smiled as she entered, that beaming smile of his that crinkled his face and turned his eyes to gold. She wasn't sure where all the awkwardness had gone between them, although she considered that perhaps he'd decided that current situations trumped whatever petty arguments had been brewing between them, and told himself to let bygones be bygones. She'd brought the topic only once in the past few weeks, in one of her few conversations with Jon, and he'd just looked at her carefully and said, "We had a short conversation a while ago," and refused to say anything more.

So now she didn't bother to question it, just gave him a shy smile and edging into the room. The door slammed behind her with a bang and she jumped out of her skin, feeling the stab of terror widen her eyes and temporarily stop her heart as she whirled round. Then, just as quickly, she had forced herself calm again, and turned back to him.

Taking a shuddering breath, she took a seat on the sofa next to him.

"Sebastian asked me to pass on a message," she began quietly, but she knew she wouldn't have to speak up as his face drained of colour. "Not just to you, to all the Lightwoods, but I think they'd prefer to hear it from you."

"What is it?" He asked, his tone fragile. He'd closed his book now; his sole attention was on her. She played with her fingers in her lap.

"Valentine told him to tell you he was sorry. About everything. About nearly killing Max, about killing Robert purely out of spite for what friends they were once. For just. . . doing every bad action there is to do. And I don't know if he thought the apology would earn him forgiveness, or redemption, or some chance at a happy afterlife, and I _know_ it won't help your family move on, but I felt obligated to pass it on anyway. The last words of a dead man." She swallowed before she could continue babbling, and only allowed herself to add one last thing. "The ball's in your court now."

He understood.

"Thank you." He said, reaching out to squeeze her hand.. "I don't think I'll tell the others for now, but thank you anyway."

She squeezed it back, and smiled softly. "You're welcome."

He put an arm round her shoulders, and she nestled into him. She closed her eyes for a moment and she leaned her head against his chest, letting the steady pound of his heartbeat relax her own.

"Clary?" Jace said suddenly.

"Mmhm?" She didn't open her eyes.

"Do you mind if I. . ?"

He didn't finish his sentence, and she had no idea what he could be referring to, but she gave a noncommittal shrug nevertheless, and still didn't open her eyes. She felt him laugh, but didn't try to look until he took her hand and pressed something round and smooth into it.

She opened her eyes. It was an apple. She cast him a suspicious look. He only raised an eyebrow.

Without breaking eye contact, she very pointedly brought it up to her mouth and bit into it. Her face contorted at the taste, and spat it out, right into his lap. He grimaced, but a bark of laughter escaped him as she brandished the apple - which she'd now caught onto the fact was bruised - in his face, and then started laughing too.

She was laughing so hard that when she tried to throw it at his head, although she was less than a foot away from him, she missed by miles.

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 _End_


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